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EE AND FLAME 



• 



FROM THE GERMAN OF 

/ 

LEVIN SCHUCKING, 



TRANSLATED BY 



EVA M. JOHNSON 




NEW YORK: 
APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

549 and 551 BROADWAY. 
1876. 



<6 V 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876 9 
By D. APPLETON & CO., 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washingtono 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



CHAPTEE 1. 

IN REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES. 

In the year 1851 gossip in the good old 
town of H., in Lower Saxony, was busy 
with the affairs of a family that had lately 
moved into the place — a family belonging to 
the country nobility, and formerly possessed 
of considerable property in the vicinity, but 
now very much reduced. In the course of 
a century, one estate after another had been 
sold, until at length the last was gone, and 
the family had moved into town - with what 
remained to them after the debts were paid. 
There, instead of mourning over their lost 
greatness, they seemed bent on indemnify- 
ing themselves for the forced seclusion and 
Asiatic ennui of the country life of a house- 
hold in straitened circumstances. 

The family consisted of three persons— 
Herr von Melroth, and his two daughters, 
Matilda, twenty-three, and Elsie, twenty- 
one years old, neither of them engaged, 
but both — so gossip declared — very much 
inclined to enter into an engagement. Such 
an inclination would, indeed, have seemed 
no more than natural, since the life the von 
Melroths were leading must soon dissipate 
what was left of their property, and the 
girls could be provided for in no other way 
than by marriage. And the life they led 
seemed, indeed, senseless enough to the 
gossips. They kept open house for a few 
.young people from some of the best 
ourgher families, with which Herr von Mel- 
zutii had formerly been acquainted. These 



young people spent their evenings at Herr 
von Melroth's whenever they pleased, with 
conversation, music, and social games; 
sometimes they had little concerts, and 
sometimes, when the company was a little 
larger than usual, they danced. And all of 
this with a very simple and frugal style of 
housekeeping ! 

In this quiet, uncommercial town, rents, 
like all other prices, were low; and Herr 
von Melroth, who on this account had taken 
up his residence in H., which was not far 
from Asthof, his former estate, had not 
needed to deny himself the luxury of a very 
convenient and spacious dwelling. The 
house he occupied had, indeed, a somewhat 
dismal and sunless appearance, for it faced 
the north; but it was a fine old patrician 
house. The court was quite small, and the 
back part of the building high; in winter 
its fantastic roof kept the sun from the rest 
of the house nearly all day. The sunlight 
could be seen only as it shone through the 
windows of this part, which contained a 
great banqueting-hall, occupying the entire 
first floor; and as this hall had on each side 
a row of high, uncurtained windows, the 
view from the front part of the house at sun- 
set was always pleasant, and sometimes 
magical, when the sunlight broke through 
the windows on the opposite side, throw- 
ing its clear splendor or its purple glow into 
the antique room, lighting up some parts of 
it strangely, and transforming the whole 
into a fantastic realm. Still more peculiar 
was the effect when the full moon shone in 



2 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



from the farther side, its pale light resting 
on the ancient cupboards, mouldings, and 
furniture, and giving to the great room a 
weird and ghostly air; and, indeed, tradi- 
tion affirmed that it was not quite canny in 
the old Kali 

One evening in the -winter of 1850-51, 
there was assembled in Herr von Melroth's 
parlor a little company of people who might 
called the regular guests of the house. 
These were an elderly gentleman, a young 
lady, and three young gentlemen. The 
most elegant-looking of the latter was tall 
and slender, with very prepossessing fea- 
tures, a remarkably fine forehead and deli- 
cate lips, around which hovered a slight ex- 
pression of cynical disdain, and shrewd, 
fiery eyes. If this young man were really, 
as he said and hoped, to enter upon a diplo- 
matic career, through the help of a rich 
cousin, after he should have passed the 
assessor's examination, then, according to 
the evidence of physiognomy, he must have 
found his appropriate calling. The second 
was a fine looking officer, a relative of the 
future diplomatist, though his name was 
just plain Schott, while his younger cousin 
was distinguished by the aristocratic von — 
Ferdinand von Schott. A physiognomist 
could say nothing against his face, for, with 
his somewhat coarse, bronzed, and thor- 
oughly good-humored features, he looked as 
if he had been predestined to be a soldier, 
and as if he would develop, in the course of 
time, into a mere fighting automaton. The 
third was a very tall, slender, blonde young 
man, in a gray habit, suggesting the calling 
of a forester. In connection with this, his 
face was somewhat puzzling; for, with his 
great, liquid blue eyes, his fair curling hair 
and rather pale complexion, ho looked much 
more like a poet, a musician, or some other 
art student, than like a forester or hunter. 
With his delicate face and the quiet grace of 
his movements, suggesting an indolent 
rather than an active nature, he could not 
possibly have been made to battle with the 
elements or take the lives of God's harmless 
creatures. 

The young lady we have mentioned was 
tall and handsome, very energetic in her 
movements, and somewhat loud-voiced; she 



seemed to have arrived at that uncertain 
age when many young ladies develop a ten- 
dency to make their presence more em- 
phatic, rind to give to their utterances a 
peculiar loud jollity. The elderly gentle- 
man was a pensioned judge, who had been 
a student-friend of Herr von Melroth, and 
often dropped in of an evening to play Bos- 
ton with him. Herr von Melroth was very 
grateful to him for coming; for he was often 
not a little bored among the young people, 
to whom Captain Schott also joined himself, 
though he was near middle age. It was par- 
ticularly tiresome to Herr von Melroth 
when they were engaged with music or 
with games, which gave him no chance to 
indulge his propensity for telling anecdotes 
and making harmless jokes; he was not the 
man to make for himself the opportunity for 
indulging his inclination; he was a good- 
humored soul, who had always allowed him- 
self to be mastered, first by his wife, then 
by his increasing business difficulties, and 
now by his two daughters — or, rather, by 
one daughter; for the older, Matilda, had 
much of his quiet, yielding disposition, 
while Elsie, the younger, ruled her, their 
father, and the entire household. 

How could she but rule the house, whose 
star she was? Elsie was wonderfully beau- 
tiful and brilliant, few as had been the op- 
portunities for intellectual culture at their 
country home. Whence this proud, impe- 
rial blood came, this high, self-conscious 
nature with its brilliant gifts, in this last 
shoot of the von Melroth race — a race that 
had lived along through the centuries in 
peaceful mediocrity — heaven only knows ! 

Elsie von Melroth was tall and slender; 
the perfect development of her form was 
shown to advantage by the proud grace of 
her bearing, which, however, was not lack- 
ing in maidenliness; her head with its abun- 
dant black hair was carried proudly; her 
features were delicate, the forehead low, the 
nose straight and finely-cut, and the eyes of 
a peculiar charm. They were large and 
dark, and shaded by long, silky lashes; at 
times, when they were fully opened, their 
ordinary quiet and dreamy expression was 
exchanged for a sudden fire, that revealed a 
remarkably passionate nature. They were 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



3 



a Hi tie too round, those eyes, a little too far 
apart; but if any one who felt their charm 
thought of this as a defect, he could not 
but regard her face with its delicate and 
slightly roseate tint and its perfect oval, as 
a whole of extraordinary beauty. 

And since, together with her beauty, 
Fraulein Elsie was gifted with a most keen 
and ready understanding, it was but natural 
that she should be the centre of her circle, 
that she should rule it, and receive universal 
homage. Her sister Matilda was much less 
beautiful; her spirit was very little like that 
of "Flame," as Elsie was called at the 
house, Herr von Schott having first given 
her the title. Matilda's nature resembled 
rather a quiet, peaceful lake, where moved 
the nymphs of good and pious thoughts; 
whether the lake was also deep, who could 
tell? Captain Schott, at least, seemed to 
think so, for he directed his attentions, 
which Elsie had treated with somewhat 
brusque disdain, to Matilda, who received 
them with a certain quiet, almost naive 
readiness, as if it were a matter of course 
that a young lady should accept the atten- 
tions shown her with equal courteous 
warmth, and show herself grateful for them. 
She was lighter than Elsie, her hair quite 
light brown, her eyes blue, her complexion 
lighter and rosier; if her handsome sister 
had not thrown her into the shade, she 
would have been considered very pretty; 
but the difference between them was too 
great for justice to be done Matilda when 
her sister was present. 

Elsie's acknowledged suitor was the fu- 
ture diplomatist, Ferdinand von Schott, 
though even he was not treated much better 
by her than his cousin, Captain Schott, had 
been at his first advances. However, Fer- 
dinand seemed too deeply in love to be 
frightened away by such treatment. Emil 
Drausfeld, the mild forester, followed her 
every movement with his enthusiastic eyes; 
but this quiet youth could not be regarded 
as a suitor, on account of his being entirely 
without prospects. Still, it was he whom 
Elsie seemed to prefer to all others — that is, 
she treated him like a child, scolded and 
criticised him, gave him errands to do, and 
in return supplied him with the largest 



piece of cake while her sister was serving 
the other guests with tea. He seemed, 
however, to hold his place in the circle 
chiefly by right of his musical talent. He 
played the flute and the violin, often accom- 
panying Elsie's performances at the piano, 
which gave evidence of a high order of 
talent, though, like her other gifts, it had 
received but little culture during their resi- 
dence in the country. 

The musical performances had been al- 
most entirely given up for a few days, for 
the little company was 'occupied with other, 
more important business. They were ex- 
cited over the preparations for a great and 
bold undertaking; they were about to es- 
tablish an amateur theatre, or, rather, had 
already established one; for the stage was 
as good as finished in the great hall, and 
the little comedy with which they were to 
open the theatre, and which was to be fol- 
lowed in the course of the winter by half-a- 
dozen others, was in process of preparation. 
The performers were gathered about a 
round table, before a sofa, in one corner, 
while the two older gentlemen were at their 
card-table in another. Ferdinand von 
Schott, who took the place of manager, was 
hearing Matilda rehearse her part. She 
seemed to be very much in need of train- 
ing, for he frequently interrupted her with 
the exclamations, "Louder!" "More 
force!" or, "More fire, more fire!" re- 
peating the passage himself, with a pas- 
sionate power of voice, that was the more 
effective as he knew how to modulate it so 
perfectly as to give the impression of most 
complete control. His declamation was so 
striking that his cousin, the captain, re- 
marked, when Matilda had finished: 

' 4 You have much more fire than I gave 
you credit for, Ferdinand; a future diplo- 
matist, like you, should not be such a pent- 
up volcano." 

"Ah!" said Ferdinand, laughing, "it 
was not for nothing they gave me the nick- 
name of ' Fire' at the. University. But you 
will admit that I have learned to control it, 
Alexander." 

" Oh, yes, when it is a question of con- 
trolling the emotions of Fraulein Tannen- 
heim, the beautiful character that Fraulein 



4 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



Matilda has to represent, you do very well, 
as we have just seen. Whether you could 
do the same with your own — that is quite 
another question." 

"With my own, too. Just ask Fraulein 
Elsie whether I do not control the volcano 
' admirably, when she does everything to ex- 
cite it to a terrible eruption." 

"I?" asked Fraulein Elsie, as if at a loss 
to understand. 

"Yes, you, fraulein, with the air of inno- 
cence. Do you not often abuse me in a 
way to put a lamb into a passion ?" 

Elsie shrugged her shoulders, and the 
captain said: 

"And so you suppress your fire? That 
is very foolish, for if Fraulein Elsie is 
'Flame,' then you can only succeed by 
showing that you are a kindred element. " 

" Yes, indeed; fire and flame belong to- 
gether!" exclaimed Fraulein Theresa Hol- 
brecht, the friend of the sisters, with a loud 
laugh. 

"Do you think so?" asked Elsie. "I 
think kindred elements repel each other; 
only opposites are mutually attractive." 

" That would go hard with the fire, little 
Flame," said Theresa, smiling. 

" In spite of all, he sees his hopes fast 
turning into water," said Ferdinand, with a 
sigh. " What is to be done then ?" 

"Nothing, but to quench both fire and 
flame with this peaceable liquid," who, in 
the meantime, had been pouring out tea, 
and was now passing it around. 

"Eight," said the captain; "Fraulein 
Matilda is always the peacemaker, the me- 
diator. Let us quench all the strife of fire 
and flame with this." 

"Only not the flame itself," remarked 
Emil Drausfeld; "or what would a poor 
moth like me do, when deprived of the 
sweet privilege of circling around it and 
burning his wings at it ?" 

They laughed, as usual, at Emil's re- 
marks, which were generally aimed at him- 
self, with a characteristic irony, and then 
the two old gentlemen, who had laid aside 
their cards to take a cup of tea with the 
rest, came up and seated themselves with 
the young people, and Melroth said: 

"I think one good thing, at least, will 



be accomplished by your undertaking in 
the great hall back there. Such a thor- 
oughly frivolous, sinful, worldly amusement 
as an amateur theatre, must have as terrify- 
ing an effect on the spirits that haunt it as 
holy water does on the devil. Probably 
they will hereafter shun the room you are 
going to desecrate with your nocturnal 
amusements — which, by the way, are rather 
childish pleasures — and hunt up some other 
theatre for their performances. " 

" And do you call that accomplishing 
good?" said Ferdinand. "I think that 
would be depriving this fine old patrician 
house of one of its chief charms. What 
can make it more attractive and interesting 
than a haunted room?" 

"It is a charm that, at all events, is 
growing rare enough, " said the judge. ' * In 
my youth, we had any number of such 
houses in the city. In fact, there were but 
few — that is, real old family houses — in 
which something mysterious had not oc- 
curred, the key to which could be found 
only in the realm of the supernatural. 
Now, the spirits seem to have been gradu- 
ally drawing together, like a tribe of Indians 
driven from their hunting-grounds, until 
finally there is no place left to them but 
your hall " 

" They are doomed to extinction," inter- 
rupted the captain, " if that expression can 
be applied to people already dead. But I 
believe that you, the present inhabitants of 
the house, have not seen or heard anything 
of them?" 

" Oh, but we have," said Matilda, eagerly. 
" A few weeks ago, in looking from my 
chamber, which Opens upon the court, I 
saw all the windows of the hall illuminated 
with a strange blue light, and shadows 
moving across the panes, like human forms. 
I told you about it the next morning, Elsie. " 

Elsie merely nodded, looking as if the 
matter did not interest her much, ana 
passed the sugar-bowl to Emil Drausfeld. 

" The bluish light was probably that of 
the moon, and the shadows were thrown 
very naturally by light clouds passing over 
it." 

"Oh, no, no," said Matilda, clinging tc 
her assertion. " It was not so at all. Clouds 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



5 



would have hidden the moon, and so have 
withdrawn all the light in the room; but 
the light remained, and the shadows were 
those of men; I am not mistaken; they 
were, in reality, very mysterious forms." 

"How can any one be so superstitious, 
Fraulein Matilda?" said the captain. 

Matilda became suddenly silent, either 
because she was offended at the rebuke, or 
because she did not want to annoy the cap- 
tain. Emil Drausfeld, however, took up 
the conversation, and said: 

"Instead of doubting Fraulein Matilda's 
testimony, we ought to ask the judge, who, 
as the oldest native of the city among us, 
must know something of the affair, to tell 
us the story of the haunted room, for the 
visitations of the spirits are always con- 
nected with some tragic story of their mor- 
tal existence." 

" That is true," said .Herr von Melroth. 
•* So, tell us, judge, the history of our hall." 

"The history of the hall?" said the old 
gentleman, curtly. "You are asking a 
great deal ! Who knows all that has hap- 
pened in an old building that has stood for 
centuries? Who could give an account of 
it ? I would not even undertake to give a 
truthful and complete history of any lady's 
little modern boudoir ! The most remark- 
able and interesting things that happen in 
the world never get into history " 

"Many things," interrupted Ferdinand, 
smiling, "that escape the serious Mother 
Clio fail to evade the gossipy Aunt Tradi- 
tion." 

" That is true," answered the old gentle- 
man, "and what tradition says of your hall 
is, that, during the Seven Years' War, a 
handsome officer was in winter quarters 
here, and won the heart of the daughter of 
the family, which was one of the oldest of 
the city; and that in the spring, when he 
was about to march away with the others, 
there arose great lamentation and mourning, 
and the girl .passionately demanded — you 
see there were 'Flames' even then — that 
the officer should leave his comrades, re- 
sign his office, and remain as her husband. 
The young man would not consent, either 
because his ambition was greater than his 
love, or because he didn't like the idea of 



taking up his residence for life in our quiet 
town — where perhaps even then the flies 
fell off the walls for very ennui, as they are 
said to do now in warm summer afternoons 
— or possibly the reason he gave to the in- 
credulous girl was the true one — that he 
could not think of procuring his discharge 
now, at.the beginning of a new campaign; 
at any rate, he tried to comfort her with the 
promise that he would return and take her 
to his home as soon as peace was declared. 
This rather questionable comfort did not 
satisfy our 'Flame;' slie held to her first 
demand. During the evening and night 
before they were to march away, the officers 
of the regiment were assembled in your 
hall, to take their farewell drink, which 
they seem to have done very thoroughly 
and exhaustively. At midnight, the pas- 
sionate girl burst into the hall, into the 
midst of the drunken officers, and stormily 
demanded of the colonel that he should 
give her lover his discharge, and forbid him 
to march away with the rest. She talked 
to the wine-heated soldiers like Clarchen, 
in Goethe's "Egmont," to the citizens of 
Brussels. They listened, at first, with puz- 
zled surprise; then with laughter and jeers. 
Surrounded by these wild fellows, ridi- 
culed, enraged, and wholly beside herself, 
she seized a knife from the table in her ex- 
citement, and, before any one could arrest 
her, she thrust it into her lover's heart, with 
the words, ' I will find a way to keep you 
from marching off ! ' 

" The unhappy young man fell, and the 
girl escaped from the officers who crowded 
around her, down the stairs leading to the 
alley at the rear of the house; the men fol- 
lowed, in wild chase, down the streets, 
across the market-place, over the court of 
the old castle, till there, at the end of the 
court, where the old weir dams back the 
waters of the Luter, she vanished from 
their eyes. " 

" Oh !" cried Elsie, who had been listen- 
ing intently, her great eyes fastened upon 
the narrator, "she threw herself into the 
water 1" 

" Ye 3. The corpse of the officer and that 
of the drowned girl lay in the hall the next 
day in their coffins; and they were buried 



6 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



together in the Stephanie Cemetery. This 
is the story as I heard it in my yonth; a 
story of the Seven Years' War, they said 
then; but before that war it was told as an 
incident of the Thirty Years' War, and be- 
fore that as one of the Smalcaldic, or some 
other. In reality, there were no troops 
wintered in our town during the. Seven 
Years' War. In order to determine the 
time, it would be necessary to have some 
one acquainted with the costumes of differ- 
ent periods on hand, to examine the dress 
of the officers when they are at their ban- 
quet again, by the bluish light that Frau- 
lein Matilda says she saw." 

"Do they hold banquets there, then?" 
asked Ferdinand. 

" So it is said." 

"There is nothing very extraordinary 
about the story," said the captain. " It is 
easy to believe that it happened just so. " 

" The only extraordinary thing about it," 
said Elsie, " is, that the gi;l should not al- 
low herself to be deceived, and take it as 
gently and quietly as girls usually do " 

"And so destroy herself entirely," said 
Ferdinand. 

"Yes; but not until she had revenged 
herself and punished the faithless lover, 
who perished with her." 

"Elsie is right," cried Fraulein Theresa 
Holbrecht; "it would be a good warning to 
fickle men if more girls would show them 
that they are not afraid to take extreme 
measures to guard their rights." 

Elsie shrugged her shoulders, disdain- 
fully. 

"Oh!" said she, "the best thing would 
be to show them that it was a matter of in- 
difference whether such a man stayed or 
went ! I wouldn't throw away a word to 
keep him !" 

" That is a view of the matter d la Frau- 
lein Elsie, " exclaimed Ferdinand. 1 ' Wholly 
unmoved by the tragedy of the story — just 
hear what her wicked pride has to say of 
it!" 

"Are you surprised at that? You have 
often said I had no feeling." 

"Feeling? Oh, yes; but much more 
pride and malice; they are ready to spring 
up at any moment and get the better of 



your feelings. Sympathy with you is 
the left hand, and malice the right. You 
know we take everything at first by the 
right hand." 

" Because the right has grown stronger 
by practice. Why is it that men give the 
women more occasion to exercise their ma- 
lice than their sympathy ?" 

"Oh!" laughed the captain; «' that is 
something new ! A man does not address 
himself to the malice of the girls, but to 
their kindness only." 

"And by abusing the kindness he awa- 
kens the malice." 

" Consequently," said Ferdinand, "I, on 
the other hand, address myself to the malice 
of Fraulein Elsie, in order to awaken her 
kindness." 

"Oh! you needn't hope for that," said 
Elsie, pouting. 

" Yery well, then; I will not hope for it — 
what's the difference ? But love is a war- 
fare, and it is well to have a clear under- 
standing beforehand. So let us continue to 
use the weapons we have been fighting 
with." . 

"I should think," said Emil Drausfeld, ( 
dryly, " that it belonged more properly in 
my department. Love seems to me to be a 
chase " 

"In which the girls are your prey, my 
dear sir," said Elsie, more mockingly than 
usual. 

"Then it is more honorable to be the 
captive of an honest warrior than the prey 
of a hunter," said the captain, looking ten- 
derly at Matilda, who blushed a little. 

" Oh, you do not know what you are say- 
ing," said Ferdinand. " It is not a ques- 
tion of captives for you, my dear Alexander, 
or of prey for you, Drausfeld — do. not de- 
ceive yourselves. We are the conquered in 
the battle, and often fall in it." 

"Why do you begin the battle, then?" 
said Elsie. 

" That is our nature. We are the weaker 
sex," answered Ferdinand, " and allow our- 
selves to be drawn into the conflict: Draus- 
feld expressed it correctly; we are all poor 
moths, and the flame attracts us by its bril- 
liancy and destroys us 1" 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



7 



' Elsie looked at him thoughtfully for a 
while aud theu said : 

" Would it be a misfortune to be de- 
stroyed by a great aud splendid flame ?" 

The judge, to whom this conversation 
was not very fascinating, rose to finish his 
game with Herr von Melroth; the young 
people returned to their rehearsal, until 
the little clock on the mantle struck ten, 
and the guests prepared to depart. 

Ferdinand and Emil Drausfeld took the 
same direction. They went along together, 
the sound of their steps echoing back from 
the gables of the old black and red houses 
that looked into the deserted and silent 
streets. They talked only in monosyllables, 
till Ferdinand said: 

" Did you notice, Emil, how excited 
Fraulein Elsie was by the judge's story ? 
Didn't that make you a little anxious?" 

"Me? Why?" said Emil. 

"Oh, now, you will not deny that you 
are her favorite. It must be your gentle- 
ness and meekness that have enchanted 
her." 

"Oh, you are jesting. I am only a sort 
of page for her, her souffre-clouleur, her 
model boy, who is rewarded by kindnesses 
for not boring her with declarations of love. 
She wants the rest of you to take me as an 
example, and be as modest " 

"I am not sure whether it is so, dear 
friend. A^ any rate, Elsie said at last that 
she wouldn't waste a word to keep a depart- 
ing lover. That must be pleasant for you, 
for the hour for going must very soon strike 
for you. You will soon have to take your 
examination, and will do better than you 
did the first time. Then you will be ap- 
pointed to some distant, romantic, but quiet 
old forest lodge, to which you can no more 
expect our proud lady to follow you than 
the soldier of the Seven Years' War could 
take his high-spirited sweetheart to the 
camp and field. You have no money, and 
Elsie has none !" 

Emil laughed, but not without a certain 
sadness, which did not escape Ferdinand's 
notice. 

" You talk to me like a fatherly mentor," 
said he» " If a little jealousy is lurking be- 
hind the fatherly solicitude, I will set you 



at rest by confessing my deep consciousness 
of my unworthiness to sue for the hand of 
Fraulein Elsie. It is true, I am a poor 
devil, intended by nature to go through life 
as a poor musician, but prevented by my 
parents in their solicitude for my future 
from attaining even to that. For, as they 
thought fiddle-playing and flute-blowing a 
very poor occupation for the son of an au- 
ditor adorned with the red eagle of the 
fourth class, they compelled me to adopt a 
" burgher" calling. I chose the occupation 
of forester, and failed in my first examina- 
tion." 

"I know, I know," interrupted Ferdi- 
nand. "Those are unpleasant accidents of 
which it can too often be said, * hodie 
mihi, eras tibi.' Who knows whether it 
will go any better with me in the assessors' 
examination, for which I am preparing ? I 
should be sorry, Drausfeld, if my fatherly 
warning, as you call it, had hurt you. It 
was not prompted by jealously exactly — 
only a little anger and vexation." 

"Anger! At what?" 

"You see how I am always at swords' 
points with Fraulein Elsie; and often I am 
angry at everything, and especially at you 
in your character of a meek Fridolin, as if 
that would not help to spoil such an arro- 
gant creature, to make her still more 
haughty, and lead her to imagine that all 
men ought to take pattern by your " 

" Soft-headedness ? Is that what you 
were going to say, Schott ?" 

Ferdinand grumbled something angrily, 
and Emil continued: 

"I will not lay it up against you. Such 
a hopeless attempt as the one you are en- 
gaged in would make any one ill-humored." 

"Hopeless? And why hopeless? I do 
not think so by any means. I love Elsie 
passionately, and, in the end, love conquers 
in spite of everything. Hopeless ? Eeally, 
if I were to acknowledge that to myself, I 
should put a ball through my head in de- 
spair !" 

" Oh !" exclaimed Emil, as if frightened. 
"Then, to be sure, it was not for nothing 
that they called you Fire at the university. 
But then " 

"What were you going to say, Emil?" 



8 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



asked Ferdinand, eagerly. "Now that we 
have begun these confidences, speak out 
plainly what you mean by that * then.' " 

"Then you are to be pitied. That is all 
T can say." 

" Are you so sure that I shall never suc- 
ceed !" 

"I am," answered Emil. "If you will 
take my advice, you will drive this passion 
from your heart. It is hopeless ! " 

He said this with a sigh, with a peculiarly 
earnest and almost melancholy emphasis, as 
if it were himself who must tear a deeply- 
rooted passion from his heart. 

Ferdinand gave a forced laugh. " How 
tragically you speak ! Do you mean to tell 
me that Elsie is in love with some one else, 
and is that sigh for your own defeat ? For, 
really, you cannot mean that your own quiet 
devotion has so won upon our ' Flame' that 
others must despair. Tell me, have you 
found out that Elsie is secretly in love with 
some one whom I do not know ?" 

"Do not ask," answered Emil, quietly. 
" I <5annot tell you anything more about it." 

" There is no need of it," said Ferdinand. 
" If you think I cannot conquer this proud 
beauty, because I do not court her senti- 
mentally, because I am constantly carrying 
on a petty warfare with her, you are mis- 
taken. Such a proud nature, where the 
feelings do not predominate, such an ag- 
gressive spirit, which knows instinctively 
that the best kind of defensive warfare is 
offensive, wants to be fought with, con- 
quered, subjugated. She does not want to 
see a man at her feet; she must respect, 
look up to, fear him. A little superficial 
liking can be won from her girlish vanity 
by devotion and flattery, but she can be 
permanently conquered only by conflict, 
which will at last subjugate her, or lead 
through hate to love I" 

"What a psychologist you are!" an- 
swered Emil, shaking his head. "You 
seem to think girls can be divided into two 
classes, like hunting-dogs — one class to be 
trained by kindness, the other by force. " 

Ferdinand laughed. " That is a compari- 
son for which you, as forester, must be re- 
sponsible; I didn't make it. But here our 
paths diverge, most judicious Emil. Plea- 



sant dreams to you,' faithful, warning 
Eckart!" 

"Good night," said Emil; and they sep- 
arated to reach their rooms by different 
routes. 

When Ferdinand had arrived at his, the 
landlady brought him a light, and gave him 
at the same time a large, old-fashioned key. 

"The carpenter," she said, "has been 
here to tell you that he has done the work 
you last ordered at the theatre, and to re- 
turn the key of Melroth's Hall. Here it is." 

Ferdinand put the key into his pocket. 
It belonged to a little door that led from a 
narrow back street into Melroth's large hall, 
where the theatre, in which the amateur 
performances were to take place, had been 
arranged, according to Ferdinand's direc- 
tions. 



CHAPTER II. 

AMBITIOUS DREAMS. 

As the little stage in the hall was ready, 
the first rehearsal could now be held there. 
It 'took place very soon, and went off ex- 
tremely well — at least to the entire satisfac- 
tion of the performers. Everf one felt 
fully repaid for the trouble — if not by the 
success of the play, at least by the pleasure 
coming in by the way — the little comic 
episodes, and the excitement. As regards 
the performance, Ferdinand von Schott, 
who was a sharp critic and a strict manager, 
found much to blame. Emil spoke too in- 
dolently, his manner was too negligent and 
slovenly. Fraulein Theresa Holbrecht was 
too angular and violent in her movements, 
and could not be reasoned out of the notion 
that in declamation all the adjectives should 
have a peculiar pathetic emphasis, and the 
nouns should be slurred over as much less 
important affairs. But the captain, who had 
to direct the declarations of love in his part 
to Fraulein Matilda, played well and with 
feeling, much better than had been e s . 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



9 



X^ected: and Matilda developed a talent for 
accepting them with very simple and na- 
tural grace. Elsie, whose suitor in the play- 
was Ferdinand, escaped criticism entirely. 
He contented himself with looking at her, 
accompanying all her movements with his 
eyes and keeping silence. It seemed that 
he found nothing in her to criticise; what 
she did and said probably formed his stand- 
ard of correctness. 

After the rehearsal, it was the universal 
opinion that the performers deserved some 
special reward for it; and, therefore, Herr 
von Melroth was obliged to consent to 
shorten his afternoon nap, and accompany 
the young people after dinner to Mount 
Michael's, a beautiful place of resort, a 
quarter of a league from the city gate. It 
was a bright, sunny day.; the winter had 
been unusually mild, and now the days had 
grown much longer, and the first indications 
of spring were beginning to appear. In 
the hedges, which were enlivened by the 
chirping and twitting of the sparrows, the 
branches of hazel and willow were begin- 
ning to bud, and the young grass was 
spreading its green carpet over the fields. 
In the parlor of the coffee-house which 
overlooked the picturesque old town with 
its many towers, and the windings of the 
river, the hours pass over the merry com- 
pany much more rapidly than they thought 
necessary or kind in those careless, swift- 
dancing nymphs; if they must dance, why 
could they not assume for such occasions a 
leisurely and dignified minuet ? Why not, 
for the sake of young people with such an 
incredible amount to say, and in company 
with a papa whose friend, the judge, comes 
regularly at six o'clock for a game of Bos- 
ton, and must not be allowed to make a 
journey for nothing ? 

"Play dominos with papa," whispered 
Elsie to Emil Drausfeld, as Herr von Mel- 
roth looked at his watch for the first time; 
and Emil Drausfeld offered himself up with 
touching resignation. 

But the conversation was not so lively 
after that. It was evident that Emil's dry, 
humorous comments were a necessary part 
of it. Elsie, in particular, took much less 
interest, and was much more quiet than 



usual. Ferdinand noticed it, and he, too, 
grew less talkative; why should he talk 
when Elsie would not listen? Should he 
exert himself to entertain Fraulein Theresa 9 
Or disturb Matilda and his cousin, Alex- 
ander, in their conversation, which was 
growing more and more exclusive ? 

Herr von Melroth looked at his watch the 
second time, and no one now had any ob- 
jections to starting for home as he suggested. 
They began to look for their hats and 
wraps. Elsie was the first to be ready, and 
while the others were busy with their pre- 
parations, she stepped through a glass door 
upon the balcony in front of the parlor. 
Ferdinand, who had noticed her eyes rest- 
ing thoughtfully upon him several times 
during the last hour, followed her into the 
balcony, slightly excited and agitated. She 
was leaning on the balustrade, her eyes 
turned toward the setting sun, which seem- 
ed to be sinking into an abyss between two 
neighboring hills beyond the town. Elsie 
took no notice of his approach; her eyes 
rested fixedly on the same point. 

"Your thoughts are travelling on a path 
not unknown to mine," said Ferdinand, 
after a pause. 

"Indeed!" she answered, raising her 
head, haughtily; "what do you know about 
the travels of my thoughts ?" 

" Will you deny that they were travelling 
through that chasm yonder, along the road 
that leads .to Asthof ?" 

"It is possible," answered Elsie, blush- 
ing slightly. "I have spent many happy 
days on our place there, and it is natural 
that I should think of them when the sun 
draws my eyes in that direction. But I 
should like to know what attracts your 
thoughts there, Herr von Schott?" 

"If you want to know, I will tell you, 
Elsie. They say that the faithless steward, 
who is now in possession of the estate, had 
much to do with getting your father's affairs 
into such a condition that he was obliged to 
sell it " 

" My father thinks so, and cannot be con- 
vinced to the contrary," interrupted Elsie, 
with unusual warmth; "but I do not be- 
lieve it. It is false — Jam sure it is false !" 

"It may be. What I was about to say is 



10 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



this: my favorite air-castle is the fancy that 
some day, when I am rich enough, I can 
buy Asthof, so that " 

44 So that you may have the satisfaction 
of being master in the house from whence 
we, the rightful heirs, have been driven out 
and sent into the world with nothing. Fie ! 
What a malicious spirit of revenge !" 

Ferdinand colored at this unexpected ex- 
planation of his words. 

4 4 Revenge ? What, in heaven's name, could 
I have to revenge ? But since you know my 
intentions so well," he added, angrily, "I 
need not explain them any farther." 

She turned to go. " Come,'* (said she, 
44 I heard the others pass out." 

When they stepped from the door of f_ie 
coffee-house, they saw Herr von Melroth, 
Theresa, and Emil, some distance in ad- 
vance, and the captain following with Ma- 
tilda, to whom he had given his arm, proba- 
bly on account of the steepness of the path. 
Ferdinand, who saw that he had been fool- 
ish to get angry at Elsie's words, as they 
were evidently thrown out only to ward off 
a declaration she saw to be coming, offered 
his arm, which she took, without hesitation. 

"You expect," she said, "to be a diplo- 
matist; and the desire to possess a large 
estate does not accord very well with that 
idea." 

4 4 1 think the desire to have some settled 
habitation is very natural for a man who has 
never had a home and a family circle to go 
to. My father was a soldier, and with the 
many removals to which an officer is sub- 
ject, he could never make a permanent 
home anywhere. He married late, and I 
lost him when I was quite young. Since 
then, my cousin, Johann Heinrich, the 
banker, whom you probably know by sight, 
has provided for me. When he was a 
young man and needed help, my father as- 
sisted him, and took him for a time to live 
with us. Cousin Johann Heinrich has 
never forgotten that, and revenges himself 
on my father's son. So I have never wanted 
for anything. I have been able to study 
whatever and wherever I wanted to; but, 
you see, a domestic hearth, a pleasant home, 
such as an old bachelor as my cousin could 
not give to a young man." 



44 Have you not a sister?" asked Elsie. 

44 Yes, a dear, good sister, Adele, of 
whom I have seen too little; she lives with 
an aunt in L. on the Elbe. But let me go 
on. You can see how it would be one of 
the dearest wishes of my heart, after all my 
wanderings, past and to come, to have at 
last a settled home, which may serve as a sort 
of gathering-place for our rather vagabond 
Scottish (schottisch) clan, and where I, 
when at rest, may meditate like a philoso- 
pher on what is permanent and enduring 
amid all the varying phenomena of life — 
on the absolute, to speak even now like a 
philosopher." 

Elsie, who had been listening sympatheti- 
cally, nodded and said, 44 Yes that is na- 
tural; and I have nothing to say against 
your granting yourself the little luxury and 
buying Asthof." 

44 1 beg your pardon, Fraulein Elsie, but 
we haven't got to Asthof yet. You must 
allow me, as a philosopher, to discuss the 
preliminaries thoroughly, before I come to 
that. To proceed with the little speech 
that I had the honor of making to you, I 
would ask first: what is the absolute, among 
the varying phenomena of life, the endur- 
ing, the one thing permanent ? what is it ? 
Answer me." 

44 Who? I?" 

44 Yes, you; for every girl has the answer 
in her heart. It is the great philosophic 
axiom with which every woman is born, the 
ideal after which she constructs her real 
world. So answer, Elsie; what is the one 
thing permanent?" 

4 4 Oh, nonsense!" replied Elsie, with a 
haughty toss of the head. 

"No, not nonsense, Elsie, but love — 
though, indeed, the two may seem to be a 
little mixed, and never can be entirely sepa- 
rated! But enough of philosophy; 4 1 have 
had enough of this dry tone,' as Mephisto- 
pheles says. As I have said, it is love. 
And since I love you, as I have repeatedly 
told you in the most sensible, touching, and 
intelligible way, past all measure, and 
almost to madness, it is naturally one of the 
deepest desires of my soul to be able to take 
you as mistress to the home where your 
cradle stood, under the feudal roof of your 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



11 



noble ancestors. So now, we have arrived 
at Astliof by a logical course of thought; 
my speech is at an end and you have the 
floor. Do not use your privilege too cru- 
elly, Elsie, I beg of you— will you?" 

" Oh," answered Elsie, "you are a frivo- 
lous man, Herr von Schott. How can you 
talk to me like that ? What if I were fool- 
ish enough to believe you, to let you * put 
nonsense into my head,' as they say, though 
it would be better to say into the heart? 
How unhappy it would make me ! The 
thought is terrible. You want to be a diplo- 
matist. For what reason? Do you think 
that nature has given you so much cun- 
ning and skill, that it would be a source of 
incalculable injury to the political interests 
of Europe if you should fail to adopt that 
profession ?" 

"By no means," answered Ferdinand, 
smiling. " But you have started well; go 
on, I beg of you." 

"Answer me first, you future Talleyrand, 
what is it that sends you among the men 
that make use of language only to conceal 
their thoughts? Do you really think you 
share in their talent?" 

"A little. I have learned foreign lan- 
guages easily, and can, therefore, keep si- 
lence in several, and conceal my thoughts in 
several. Isn't that a good deal to begin 
with ? And then I have a horror of spend- 
ing my life as a petty justice in some little, 
forlorn, out-of-the-way nest. I have higher 
aspirations. I want to learn the ways of the 
great world, to live in it, to be carried on 
with the current of the time and its events. 
I am an idealist, as you must know; and as 
an idealist, I long for the heights of life, to 
be surrounded by the richest and noblest 
forms of life, among the privileged classes 
who live in splendor and luxury, with ever- 
changing excitements and " 

" You must, indeed, be an idealist, if you 
have such an idea as that of the world in 
which a diplomatist lives. My idea is en- 
tirely different; I imagine diplomatists to 
be a peculiarly repulsive race, whose greatest 
delight is to persecute men who have fallen 
into misfortune through their love of country 
an of liberty, to act the sheriff toward poor 
political refugees in foreign lands " 



"Oh!" cried Ferdinand, in surprise. 
"You — every inch an aristocrat — have you 
such sympathies? I should not have ex- 
pected that." 

"Perhaps not; I have them, neverthe- 
less. But that is not the question. I only 
wanted to show you how inconsiderate you 
are. When you have lived in your ideal 
world two, three, four years, you will have 
become so accustomed to the brilliant crea- 
tures in the circles where you will move, 
the cultured ladies, the beautiful countesses 
and princesses, that you will think of poor 
Elsie Melroth, the wild country-girl, only 
with a pitying smile. If I should listen to 
your words now you might, perhaps, from a 
sense of duty, send me a gracious, half-cor- 
dial letter about once in three months. And 
then I could sit here in H. and think long- 
ingly of the faithless one afar off, who 
would send me at Christmas a program of 
the dance that some ambassador's beautiful 
daughter had placed in his button-hole at 
the court ball. Do you think I would like 
such a role f Do you think I should do 
well in the character of Dido Abandon- 
ata 9" 

" Oh, you are abominable," answered 
Ferdinand, deeply hurt, conscious as he 
was of the sincerity of his feelings. "It 
doesn't speak very well for your character 
that you have no faculty for understanding 
the true language of the heart, even when 
it expresses itself playfully. My nature is 
firm and constant. When I once love, I 
must love forever, even to the last breath of 
my life » 

"I see, Herr von Schott, that you do not 
put too low an estimate on your character," 
said Elsie, her lips quivering with emotion. 
"And if your nature is so tenacious and 
constant, as you say, you must take extreme 
care not to set your affections in the wrong 
place." 

"You are angry with me; but that has 
very often happened before, and I have 
survived it. But I am most deeply con- 
scious and most thoroughly convinced that 
we are homogeneous natures, that we belong 
together, like fire and flame, and that I 
shall some day succeed in bringing you to 
the same consciousness." 



12 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



"And what would you have accomplish- 
ed then?" said Elsie, sighing deeply, her 
tone changed to one of intense sadness. 

" Then," he exclaimed, in perplexity, " I 
should have accomplished everything that I 
want to and must accomplish, if I am not to 
make an utter failure." 

She shook her head sadly and quickened 
her steps, 

" Let us not fall so far behind the others," 
she said. "Come, Matilda and your cousin 
Alexander are clear out of sight. " 

She did not speak another syllable until 
they had overtaken Maltilda and her com- 
panion. Ferdinand, though he had been 
hurt and humiliated by her blunt words, 
did not interpret them unfavorably. He 
believed that he had moved and excited her 
feelings, and that her haughty answers were 
only an attempt to hide her emotion. In 
regard to Elsie, he had the proud confidence 
of final victory, the feeling that she was 
destined for him by nature and fate; yes, 
even that she was already his, and that it 
| was only her pride that prolonged the strug- 
I gle — that she was acting just as he himself 
would have done, if he had been a girl and 
I she his suitor. To gain her love seemed so 
necessary to his life, such an indispensable 
condition for his existence, that he could no 
more bear to think of final failure than a 
man can bear to dwell upon the thought of 
his death or any other horrible possibility. 

When they separated at the door of Mel- 
roth's house it was with the exclamation 
from both sides, 4 ' Auf Wiedersehen to- 
morrow evening !" for it had been agreed 
that they should meet the next evening for 
a general rehearsal. 

But shortly before noon the next day 
Ferdinand received a note signed*by Ma- 
tilda Melroth, begging him to postpone the 
rehearsal a few days, and not to come that 
evening, as her sister Elsie was suffering 
from a headache, and would, therefore, not 
be able to enter into her part with spirit 
enough to satisfy the demands of so strict 
a manager and her own. 

"The headache cannot be very severe," 
said Ferdinand to himself, somewhat ill- 
humoredly, for he had looked forward with 
pleasure to the evening; "or else she could 



not have dictated this well-written note to 
her sister, as evidently she did. It is one of 
the caprices of the princess !" 

And then came the thought that his con- 
versation with her the evening before, and 
the impression it had left upon her might 
not have been without influence on this 
caprice; and there was nothing in the idea 
to wound his self-love. 



CHAPTEE III. 

A BETROTHAL. 

The second day after the excursion, Fer- 
dinand sat in his room, which, by the way, 
exhibited none of the disorder of a bach- 
elor's abode. It is characteristic of strong 
and intelligent men, with clear minds, to 
feel the need of strict order around them; 
and it is usually only the weakly good- 
natured, who, with a praiseworthy indul- 
gence toward others, unite a fatal one to- 
ward themselves, and endure a chaos around 
them, which is considered a mark of genius, 
while it is simply one of stupidity. 

Ferdinand was strong, too, in the ability 
to control and concentrate his thoughts. 
He was, therefore, not thinking of Elsie; 
he thought of her only when he was not en- 
gaged in his work or his studies; at this 
moment the latter claimed his entire atten- 
tion. He was poring over a thick manual 
of international law, and was absorbed in 
the complicated subject of the rights and 
duties of neutrals, when there was a hasty 
knock at the door, and his cousin, the cap- 
tain, entered. 

"You, Alexander!" he said, in surprise, 
"at this hour, which is usually devoted to 
your fatherly duties for your company; 
have you given them a holiday ?" 

" Not them, but myself. Yet it is for no 
child's play, but for that serious game 
where a man stakes his all, even his soul, on 
a single card!" 

" What ? not with the devil ?" 



i 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



13 



"Not with the devil exactly, but with 
something that he sometimes rules — that is 
to say, with fate. But the one card is the 
queen-of -hearts; in a word, my dear cousin, 
I am engaged." 

"Engaged? Seriously? To Fraulein 
Matilda?" 

" To Fraulein Matilda Melroth." 

"Well, no one can escape his destiny. 
Joy to you, brave cousin of Northumber- 
land ! And how do you feel after this bold 
deed ?" 

"I seem to myself," answered the cap- 
tain. " like the air after a thunder-shower. 
When once the storm has broken out and 
the lightning is over, the air is clearer, 
milder and cooler. " 

"What a confession! You must have 
felt yourself intoxicated with happiness." 

"Yes; and, so far, I am perfectly happy. 
Perhaps if she had rejected me, I should 
have thought I must shoot myself dead. 
Now, when it is not the case, I wonder at 
happiness being so quiet a thing." 

" Yes," said Ferdinand, smiling, "that is 
a fact in the meteorology of human life. 
The thermometer — that is, in our temperate 
zone — rises to the thirtieth degree of heat, 
but falls only to the twentieth degree of 
cold. In the emotional world, it is the re- 
verse. Joy never rises so far above zero as 
grief can fall below it. " 

"That maybe so. But let us return to 
the fact that will, I hope, bring us into the 
pleasanter relation of brothers-in-law. I 
believe you can now follow my example " 

"If you are no happier, as you say, there 
is no great inducement, Cousin Alexander." 

" No happier ? You take me too literally. 
My happiness is still too new; I do not, as 
yet, fully realize it. I am like a swimmer 
who has just plunged boldly into the 
water; at the first moment he is bewild- 
ered; the pleasure and the warmth come 
afterward." 

" It is certain that Matilda would not feel 
any more warmly toward you if she knew 
that you were swimming around in so cool 
an element." 

•'Matilda is very reasonable and very 
considerate. She will understand that one 
cannot be fully self-conscious in a new po- 



sition, and needs a little time to realize 
where he is." 

"I think," said Ferdinand, "that few 
girls would keep their promises of marriage 
if they could hear the conversation in which 
their future husbands announce their hap- 
piness to their friends, with the comments 
made, and the irony that is often only half- 
concealed in their congratulations." 

"Yes, but then it is not so ill-meant, and 
the girls would be wrong to take it seri- 
ously. One often hides his feelings before 
his good friends, who are too frequently 
fellows to whom it would not do to express 
one's emotions. Beside, their ironical con- 
gratulations often conceal some envy. Isn't 
that a little the case with you, dear cousin?" 

1 ' Envy ? I ? At your winning Matilda ? " 

" I know you do not envy me for winning 
Matilda; I mean, you envy me for winning 
her so soon." 

" Perhaps. But, to be frank, I should 
prefer .a conquest with greater difficulties." 

"Oh!" laughed the captain. "Then 
you cannot complain of Fraulein Elsie. 
She gives you a lively chase enough !" 

" That is true. You are right. She is a 
wise child, and knows what she is worth." 

"Very true," was the answer. "But let 
us return. Day before yesterday, when I 
accompanied Matilda home from Mount 
Michael's, I made my declaration, and yes- 
terday I spoke with her father and received 
his consent. Herr von Melroth asked me 
to tell you that he should expect us both to 
dinner to-day, to a little family party. The 
affairs usually connected with an engage- 
ment are to be considered, and Melroth 
wants you to be there." 

"With pleasure. Will our cousin, the 
banker, be there?" 

"My uncle, Johann Heinrich ? No; I 
am going from here to him, to give him due 
notice of what has taken place. But he is 
not invited. We are to be entirely to our- 
selves. Then, we shall have the advantage 
of being able to take this same good Johann 
Heinrich, and the necessary funds he is to 
help us with, as the chief subject of our 
discussions." 

"Yes, indeed. Our good cousin will 
again have the happiness of realizing how 



14 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



useful and necessary he is to all his dear 
relatives." 

The captain smiled, rose, and extended 
his hand to his cousin. 

" Do not forget the hour — two o'clock," 
he said, and went to introduce himself to 
his uncle in his new character. 

Ferdinand's thought were now so thor- 
oughly drawn in another direction, that he 
closed his book and walked up and down 
through his room. 

Notwithstanding all his confidence and 
assurance of success, his love for Elsie was 
too great and deep to allow him to escape 
moments of despondency, and to consider 
his cousin's easy success without some 
envy. He told himself again and again 
that he could not win Elsie in the ordinary 
way of sentimental devotion and adoration; 
that he must impress her with his talent and 
energy; that her feelings were proportion- 
ately too weak to attract her toward a man 
who had nothing but love to offer; that she 
wanted to be mastered; that, like every wo- 
man of strong feeling, she must also fear 
the man she loved. And he did not shrink 
from such a strife, as he often said, defi- 
antly and confidently. But, notwithstand- 
ing all this, there were hours when he would 
have preferred to follow the broad highway, 
and act like other lovers, commending him- 
self by bouquets and sonnets, and touching 
the heart of the beloved one by sighs, and 
blushing, stammering declarations. This 
would have been more in accordance with 
his deepest feeling and with the nature of 
love itself: and his own method, by strife 
and war of words, interrupted by times of 
studied coolness and estrangement, often 
made him suffer acutely. 

The time at length came for him to dress 
for the dinner to which he had been invited 
by his happy cousin. When he arrived, he 
found the master of the house alone. Elsie 
seemed to be busy with her toilet, and the 
captain and Matilda had not yet returned 
from a walk they had taken together. 

"You must walk arm-in-arm on our 
promenade, the cathedral square, for a 
quarter of an hour before dinner," said 
Herr von Melroth, laughing; %< that is the 



established way of proclaiming an engage- 
ment in this town." 

Aside from this remark, Herr von Mel- 
roth's tone, in speaking of the matter, was 
very serious and solemn, as if it were not 
altogether calculated to give unmixed joy to 
his fatherly heart. He had given his con- 
sent because he had been attacked so im- 
petuously — although, and in spite of, and 
notwithstanding — Ferdinand hardly listened 
fco the reasons for the objections which Herr 
von Melroth, as he explained at length, 
might have made to the marriage, as a care- 
ful and provident father; Ferdinand was 
looking, with beating heart, toward the 
door by which he expected Elsie to enter. 
She came at last, and it gave him a pang to 
see how charming she looked, how conquer- 
ing and queenly. He felt that the pros- 
pects for success in the plan he had chosen 
to win her were to-day very poor; that with 
this proud beauty he should be forced, like 
any common mortal in love, to descend to 
entreaties, and lay the weapons of his war- 
fare at her feet. She was dressed in a sil- 
ver-gray dress, very simply made, with a 
lace bertha round her shoulders; a single 
dark-red camellia glowed in her rich dark 
hair. That which to-day gave her a pecu- 
liar charm was the quiet, gentle, thought- 
ful expression of her features, that were 
wont to look out into the world with so 
much self-conscious repose; Ferdinand had 
never before seen her with this thoughtful 
and subdued expression. In tendering his 
congratulations, he offered his hand, and 
felt that hers was icy cold. Her sister's 
engagement, he thought, must have had 
upon her a peculiarly strong and, singularly 
enough, depressing effect. The question 
suggested itself, whether she had, after all, 
been in love with the captain, and this was 
the secret in Emil Drausfeld's possession 
when he had warned him? But no, that 
was impossible; he would have discovered 
that long ago ! The groundlessness of the 
supposition was soon shown by the uncon- 
strained and perfectly natural manner of 
Elsie's reception of the captain, when at 
length he arrived with his companion. 
Matilda looked out from her hat and fur 
collar with a very blooming face, flushed by 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



15 



happiness and the cool, fresh air. She 
seemed to bo really happy, though she 
spoke a little louder than usual, and her 
laugh sounded somewhat affected, as if she 
felt under obligations to appear happy, 
which never suggests itself to those who 
are really so. Perhaps, thought Ferdinand, 
she is happy rather at the prospect of being 
a bride than that of having our good Alex- 
ander for a bridegroom, as may be the case 
with many brides. 

Emil Drausfeld and Fraulein Theresa, 
the friend of the sisters, were also at din- 
ner, so that the company was large enough 
to allow Ferdinand, whose seat was next to 
Elsie's, to talk to her without making the 
conversation general. After Herr von Mel- 
roth had proposed the toast, and had steered 
his eloquence safely through the waters of 
his emotion, until, at length, he ran into 
port, amid great applause, Ferdinand said, 
half aloud, to Elsie: 

"We are about to enter into a sort of 
relationship, FrSulein Elsie, and that im- 
poses upon us new duties toward each 
other." 

"Duties ? What duties ?" she answered, 
abstractedly. 

"Well, first, the duty of concord and 
mutual forbearance." 

"I thought I had always practiced the 
latter admirably." 

" By no means, proud Fraulein Flamme; 
you have shown so little forbearance toward 
my timid and modest advances that we have 
always lived in discord." 

"You should have made your advances 
to some one who would have been more 
grateful." 

"Nature would not allow it. The fire 
struggles upward to the flame, it has no 
other mission in the world. The flame 
does, indeed, consume; but that is also its 
trade, Fraulein Elsie. It does no good to 
struggle against it; we must submit. I 
will, therefore, give up the conflict and con- 
sent to be consumed, if you will grant me 
peace. Let us drink to that !" 

Elsie lifted her glass negligently and 
touched his with it. 

" Peace," she said, in the same abstracted 
tone she had used throughout the conversa- 
2 



tion, " peace ! Can peace be had by merely 
speaking the word and touching glasses ?" 

"And by the will to keep it: why not?" 

"Oh, yes; you are a diplomatist. It is 
your business to convince the world, when 
you have made peace, that all strife is at an 
end." 

"Do you mean to say that there is no 
real peace between us? It can be had only 
upon conditions, can it?" 

"Certainly; on the conditions the victor 
prescribes." 

" Prescribe them, then; for you see, from 
all I have said, that I have no objections to 
declaring myself fully conquered." 

"You would find my conditions very 
hard," said Elsie, with a faint smile. "The 
first would be that you cease to long foi 
your ideal diplomatic world " 

" Agreed. My longings are only for you. 
So I am to give up being a diplomatist, and 
instead be — what ?" 

" That is a matter of indifference to me — 
only something that you can attend to any- 
where, so that you will not be bound to any 
particular place." 

"It would be difficult to find such an 
one. I should have to be an artist, or some- 
thing like that, and I have no talent for any- 
thing of the kind. And supposing I had 
some little talent, for instance, that of our 
friend Emil, and could play the flute as he 
does, the life of such a wandering musician 
would be a dismal sort of career. And 
then ?" 

" Then you would have to follow me 
without any will of your own, without any 
remonstrance, wherever I might want to go 
— to-day to the Cape of Good Hope, and 
to-morrow to Greenland, if that should be 
my fancy." 

"But tell me, I beg of you, what should 
I do in Greenland ? Play the flute for the 
polar bears?" 

"Obey me, obey me unconditionally, 
like a faithful, submissive servant; you 
would be obliged to do everything I com- 
manded, even carry billets-doux to an 
Esquimaux prince for me if I should hap- 
pen to fall in love with one." 

"Oh!" laughed Ferdinand. "That is 
too much. And for all that I should have — 



16 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



nothing but peace? Then I prefer war — 
war without all its horrors — and the right 
to seize the billets-doux of the Esquimaux 
or any other prince, and murder and annihi- 
late him ! But, tell me, how can any one 
be so very fond of ruling ?" 

"I should not require it from love of 
power, but only as a wise precaution ; it so 
often happens that men treat a heart they 
have gained the mastery of as children do 
their playthings — throw it away when they 
get tired of it. Is it not wise, then, to take 
precautions, and arrange it so as to rule and 
reserve to one's self the privilege of throw- 
ing away?" 

" Fraulein Elsie, how you talk ! That is 
'dreadful! What hatred you show toward 
men ! But, after all, there is some comfort 
for me in it. Heretofore I have thought 
you hated only me; now I see that I only 
have the misfortune to be included under a 
general condemnation. But have you in- 
stilled the same principles into your sister? 
If you have, I pity my poor, unconscious 
cousin. " 

"Oh, no," answered Elsie. " She is not 
capable of adopting su jh good principles. 
She will be a very humble, submissive wife 
to her lord and master." 

Elsie now turned to answer a question of 
Fraulein Theresa, who sat on the other side 
of her, and Ferdinand had an opportunity 
to reflect on the enigma presented by this 
young girl in her sharp and almost angry 
declaration of such unmaidenly principles. 
Would a young girl speak so without some 
definite personal experience? Would she 
speak so from the head only? Must it not 
be from a deeply wounded heart? Who 
knows? he thought; perhaps she has read 
some unnatural, cynical novel that has put 
such things into her head. Perhaps, when 
she lived in the country, she had some little 
romantic love affair with some rustic swain 
in the neighborhood, who proved faithless; 
therefore is not dangerous to me, though 
Elsie would feel it strongly and deeply, and 
it is hard to efface such an impression, and 
though Emil, with his owlish croaking, 
gave 

Ferdinand's thoughts were here interrupt- 
ed by another toast, and he did not have an 



opportunity to resume the conversation with 
Elsie, for they soon rose from the table. 
The company went into another room to 
take coffee, and Ferdinand found himself 
engaged in a conversation with Fraulein 
Theresa, who had been made very voluble 
by the champagne, and who, as Ferdinand 
remarked to himself, seemed to have grown 
a little malicious with it also; for she made 
all sorts of biting and derisive remarks 
about the family whose guest she was, great 
as was the want of tact in making them to 
the cousin of a man just about to connect 
himself with the family. Ferdinand con- 
cluded that Fraulein Theresa herself had 
not been without designs on his cousin, and 
that there was a little depit amoureux at 
the bottom of her remarks; he thought he 
had detected the same thing before. In the 
meantime Elsie was talking in a low tone 
with Emil Drausfeld; Herr von Melroth 
was sitting in an arm- chair in the corner, 
looking thoughtfully at the blue clouds that 
rose from his cigar — much more solemnly 
and seriously, Fraulein Theresa had remark- 
ed, than he had watched the blue smoke in 
which his farms and meadows had gone up. 

At length he rose with a sigh, and, laying 
his hand upon the captain's shoulder, dis- 
turbed the cosy tete-a-tete in which he and 
Matilda were absorbed. The captain rose 
and nodded to Ferdinand, who followed 
them into a small cabinet, Herr von Melroth 
closing the door behind him. 

" We must now introduce a little busi- 
ness into our conversation," he said, mo- 
tioning the cousins to take seats, and plac- 
ing himself in a sofa-corner; "the picture 
of the future that my two dear children — 
you, my dear captain, and my Matilda — are 
painting with the brilliant colors of love 
must have a golden, even though only a nar- 
row frame, and that is what we must talk 
about now." 

"Very well, then; let us talk of the 
frame," said Ferdinand, smiling. 

" Which at first might be made of modest 
oak-wood if the gold is lacking," said the 
captain. "You know, my dear papa-in- 
law, that I have no property, and, according 
to the intimations you gave me last evening 
when I asked you for Matilda " 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



17 



" And which, in the tempest of your feel- 
ings, you scarcely seemed to hear," inter- 
rupted Herr von Melroth; "I have none 
either — that is to say, no considerable amount 
•which I could Ruse freely for the benefit of 
my children. For I must tell you — you, too, 
Herr von Schott — I should like to have you 
understand how matters stand; I must tell 
you that after the sale of my estate of Ast- 
hof to that infamous swindler, Bousart, I 
had only about twenty thousand thalers at 
my disposal. With the interest of that 
amount I could not, of course, supply my 
own needs and the wants of my daughters — 
that you can see — and I, therefore, expended 
the greater part of it for an annuity which 
yields me much more than the ordinary in- 
terest; and, therefore, the sum itself is no 
longer at my disposal " 

" And the interest ceases at your death," 
interrupted Ferdinand. 

"With my death, certainly," answered 
Herr von Melroth, avoiding a little shyly 
the eyes of the young man, in which he 
might perhaps have read the thought that 
this was no very fatherly way of providing 
for the future of his daughters, and con- 
tinued: "Thus, you- see, my dear captain, 
that Matilda cannot bring you the capital 
you need to gain the consent of your hum- 
ble servant; and the subject of our discus- 
sion must be how we shall raise or make it 
eight thousand thalers, it should be for one 
in your position. " 

Captain Schott cleared hjs throat a few 
times before he answered, keeping his eyes 
on the carpet: 

"That is, indeed, a little stone of stumb- 
ling ! We Schotts have very little, whether 
we write our names Schott or von Schott, 
like my dear cousin here " 

"With a single exception," interrupted 
Ferdinand. " And as regards the question 
before us, it happens very fortunately for 
you, my dear Alexander, that he writes his 
name Schott, and not von Schott, and is, 
therefore, more nearly related to you than 
to me, and will not be inexorable in regard 
to this affair." 

"That," said Herr von Melroth, " is the 
established and widely-knowa banker, Jo- 
hann Heinrich Schott." 



" Johann Heinrich Schott," said Ferdi- 
nand. 

"What is your exact relationship to the 
worthy counsellor and banker?" asked Herr 
von Melroth. 

"He is simply my father's brother," an- 
swered the captain. 

"And my grandfather's grandson," said 
Ferdinand. 

"Your grandfather's grandson? I do 
not see into that. You must explain." 

"Then I must begin with my grand- 
father," answered Ferdinand. " My grand- 
father was steward and manager of a clois- 
ter domain. His oldest son succeeded him 
in that position. That son had two sons, 
the oldest of whom became a soldier, rose 
to the rank of major, and was the father of 
my dear cousin, Alexander. The younger, 
named J ohann Heinrich, became a banker, 
which was very practical, and grew very 
rich, which was very praiseworthy in him, 
but up to this time has not been tempted 
by the domestic bliss of his older brother 
to renounce his bachelor life." 

"And you, Herr von Schott, where does 
your line begin in this Scottish clan ?" 

"With the younger, much younger son 
of my grandfather, the steward. This son, 
who had the honor to be my father, was a 
soldier, also, rose to the rank of lieutenant- 
colonel, and gained a title of nobility. He 
married late, and you see before you the 
heir to his title and fortunes." 

"So," said Herr von Melroth, "you are 
really the uncle, a la mode de JBretagne, of 
our captain." 

" Who will assure you," answered Ferdi- 
nand, "that I have always taken care to act 
in a manner becoming this relation, and 
never have failed to give my nephew good 
advice and good precepts when he has come 
to me for them." 

"And on that," answered the captain, 
smiling, "I base my confidence that you 
wi]l not confine your favors to good advice, 
but will show your paternal interest by 
deeds." 

" Oh, I can guess what you mean. You 
called on your uncle, the banker " 

" I called on him, and found it easy to 
gain his consent to my union with Fraulein 



18 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



Matilda von Melrotk" — that he had been 
obliged to use all his eloquence with his 
practical uncle to gain it, he would not, of 
course, betray in the presence of Herr von 
Melroth — "but in regard to this financial 
arrangement, I could not, of course, say a 
word." 

"And so," said Ferdinand, "I am to be 
J3ut forward to break the ice; the ice in 
Johann Heinrich's countenance when this 
proposal is made to him, I can see before 
me now." 

"And just because I, too, see it so vividly 
before me, am I convinced that only the 
warmth of your eloquence can melt it," said 
the captain. 

"But I think the warmth of your love 
could do greater wonders than the warmth 
of my eloquence." 

" JSTo, no, Ferdinand; you have the great 
advantage of being his favorite, almost his 
adopted child, and he has the most natter- 
ing views of your acuteness and your judg- 
ment. And so if you tell him of Matilda's 
good qualities, and how happy I shall be 
with her, it will have a great deal more 
weight with him than anything I can say. 
Of course I cannot, as a witness in my own 
case, make as much impression on him as 
some one more disinterested. So let me 
persuade you to undertake this mission." 

"The mission of saying to him: 'Dear 
cousin, it is expected of your generosity 
that you will give your nephew the sum of 
eight thousand thalers, which he may in- 
vest, and use the interest for his future do- 
mestic necessities.' It is not altogether 
pleasant, this mission." 

"But are you not the diplomatist of the 
clan?" 

Ferdinand stroked his blonde moustache, 
and assumed an air of reflection. His 
cousin was not always in the humor to be 
approached on such a subject, and he was 
himself too dependent on him financially to 
feel entirely free to go to him with such a 
request. But he reflected that the very fact 
cf his being entrusted with so important a 
commission, and his success in it would 
make an impression on Elsie, and he said: 

" Very well, then; by way of practice for 
my future calling, I will accept the mission. 



It must succeed, for as cousin Johann Hein- 
rich is the only one who can help you, I do 
not see on what pretext he can slip out of it. 
And in order that the native hue of resolu- 
tion may not be ' sicklied o'er with the pale 
cast of thought,' I will go at once. The 
warmth of my eloquence, as you have the 
goodness to express it, will, I am sure, be 
increased by the enthusiasm with which we 
have been inspired by this beautiful day, 
and the libations we have brought to the 
gods that preside over marriage." With 
this he arose; his cousin brought his hat 
from the hall, that he might not have to ex- 
plain his early departure to the company, 
and he started for the banker's office. 



CHAPTEB IV. 

COUSIN JOHANN HEINEICH. 

It was deep twilight when Ferdinand 
stepped into the yard of the great gabled 
building in the market-place, in which was 
his cousin's banking-house and where he 
lived. At the left, on the ground-floor, 
were the business rooms; on the right, a 
small ante-room, and behind it the private 
office of the banker. When Ferdinand en- 
tered this room, the tall, thin, pale man, 
who bore a strong family resemblance to 
his handsome young cousin, was just light- 
ing the gas above his great writing-desk. 

" That's right, my dear cousin," said 
Ferdinand. " Let there be light; I have 
come for a little battle with you, and it will 
be well for us to look each other in the 
face." 

" For a battle ? Indeed, I did not know 
I had given you any occasion for hostilities, 
cousin Ferdinand. But have a chair, if 
your warlike mood will allow you to sit down 
quietly. Perhaps, too, you will not disdain 
to accept a cigar, notwithstanding your 
thirst for the fray. You will find some there 
on the stand. I confess I am not much in- 
clined to strife with you rash young people, 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



19 



after laboring as I did with Alexander this 
morning, to keep him from taking an insane 
step — and all in vain." 

"Ah! we are approaching the subject," 
answered Ferdinand, taking a cigar and 
seating himself. "From an insane step 
did you say? Alexander could not have 
made a better choice. Matilda Melroth is a 
thoroughly good, sensible, domestic, well- 
bred, cultivated, and, moreover, pretty girl, 
and of a good family." 

"Is she?" said the banker, in a some- 
what sharp, positive, and imperious voice. 
"Have you finished with your adjectives, 
or have you more in stock? No? Well, 
then, that may be all true. However, as re- 
gards the good family, she is the daughter 
of a broken-down country gentleman, who 
will not leave her a dollar; the affectionate 
father has invested all his property in a life- 
annuity — in a life-annuity, when he has two 
children; did you ever hear of such a 
thing?" 

" So you know of that ?" 

" Such things get about among business 
men." 

"It is unfortunately true; and as Matilda 
has no property, Alexander must thank 
Heaven that he " 

" Has none either ?" 

"No: that he has a good, generous uncle, 
who is like a father to him, and being 
blessed with worldly goods, is always 
ready " 

" So ?" interrupted the banker; " do you 
know of any such uncle ? So far as I know, 
Alexander has but one uncle, and he is a 
sensible business man, whose generosity 
does not go so far as to make him give his 
hard-earned money to encourage foolish 
marriages." 

" Oh, Cousin Johann Heinrich, do not 
make yourself out less liberal than you are. 
You are a splendid business-man, as every- 
body in the city knows ; it is no small mat- 
ter to begin with so little as you did, and go 
up to half a million !" 

"Say rather a whole million 1" inter- 
rupted the banker, laughing aloud. 

" And for all that," continued Ferdinand, 
without answering the interruption, " you 
have always been noble and generous to- 



ward us poor relations, and have always had 
an open hand for us. Have you not fur- 
nished me with the means for pursuing my 
studies, and promised to help me until I 
can obtain a lucrative place as secretary of 
legation or the like? How is it possible, 
now that you can leave Alexander in the 
lurch — now, when the happiness of his 
whole life depends upon it — that you will re- 
fuse him the eight thousand thalers that he 
must raise in order to be married " 

"Eight thousand thalers !" exclaimed the 
banker, as if frightened. " I believe you 
are a lunatic — eight thousand thalers !" 

"You are not to give it, only entrust it to 
Alexander, so that he may draw the interest 
until he is a major " 

Johann Heinrich Schott shrugged his 
shoulders with an air of great contempt. 

"How can reasonable people get such 
preposterous notions?" he said 

"I think the notion was natural enough 
to occur to even unreasonable people. You 
are the only one who can help him." 

" And suppose I will not help him ?" 

" Then Alexander's marriage will have to 
be given up. The poor fellow would be 
wretched. I believe he would resign his 
commission and go off " 

" Oh, nonsense ! he will get reconciled to 
it. He will give up the whole affair, and 
remain a bachelor, as I have. Then some 
day he will thank me, with tears in his eyes, 
for keeping him from doing a stupid thing. 
That is all." 

" How cross you are about it, cousin ! 
Now do you think I don't know why you 
give such ill-natured answers ?" 

"No; why, then, if you can read my mo- 
tives so well? Perhaps because I am se- 
cretly desperate about my bachelor state, 
and envy keeps me from helping Alexander 
to the domestic happiness I have missed my- 
self. Is that the reason ?" 

" No, not that; but because you are angry 
at your own good-nature, which, as you very 
well know, will out with the promise — be- 
fore I have finished this cigar — that you will 
be the generous savior of your nephew " 

Johann Heinrich Schott laughed scorn- 
fully, and w&3 just about to answer, when 
he was interrupted. A servant came in and 



20 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



announced that there was a stranger in the 
large counting-room, who insisted on seeing 
the head of the firm. Herr Schott ordered 
the man to show him in, and Ferdinand 
withdrew to the back part of the room, 
where he seated himself in the corner of a 
sofa and was almost invisible in the shadow 
of the green shades over the gas-jets above 
the writing-desk. 

The stranger, who soon after entered the 
room, was a young man of remarkable ap- 
pearance. He was tall and well-formed, 
with a head too young yet to be called lion- 
like, although the broad, powerful forehead 
and his abundant tawny hair and beard, sug- 
gested the comparison; though there was 
nothing, indeed, in the bold and well-opened 
blue eyes to remind one of the blinking, 
half-closed orbs of a lion. He was dressed 
like a country gentleman, in quite elegant, 
but loose and easy-fitting garments: a red 
tie was knotted loosely around his neck, and 
partially hidden under his broad, turned- 
down shirt-collar. 

He appeared slightly excited; his voice 
was loud, and yet sounded a little uncer- 
tain, as he said to the banker, after a slight, 
scarcely perceptible bow : 

" I come to you, sir, after having a debate 
with your clerk; your book-keeper or cash- 
ier refuses to take this American bond, 
and I need the money; I must, therefore, 
beg of you to do this favor for me, as yours 
is the only considerable banking-house in 
the place. The paper is perfectly safe, and 
I cannot understand why I have been re- 
fused in so simple a request." 

Johanh Heinrich Schott threw a sharp 
glance at the stranger, and seemed to be 
satisfied with his manly form and his frank 
face. It was probably only his haughty 
tone that drew from the banker the sharp 
reply: 

"If we refuse it, sir, we have our rea- 
sons; let us see your security." 

The stranger had already handed him the 
paper; the banker unfolded it, and ran his 
eye over it. It was a thousand-dollar bond 
of a North American railroad company. 
He then took from his desk a report in 
which he found a favorable notice of the 
company, and then began to turn over the 



leaves of the smallest and thinnest of the 
large volumes that stood on the secretary. 

"We can take the paper from you," he 
said, " but cannot at once reckon the exact 
value; that is probably the reason my clerk 
refused you. We cannot follow closely the 
fluctuations in the relative values of gold 
and paper; we shall have to send it to our 
correspondent in London, and see " 

"And I must wait for that?" cried the 
stranger, indignantly. "Ineed the money 
at once. I beg of you, take the value of 
the paper as it is given in your latest report, 
and compute by that. You will not lose 
anything, for paper is rising now, and gold 
is falling." 

"And what if we should pay you too 
little?" said Johann Heinrich Schott, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

"My God!" cried the stranger, quite 
beside himself at the suggestion of so many 
difficulties; " that will hurt no one but me; 
what can it matter to you ?" 

The banker shook his head, looked again 
into the reddened face of the stranger, and 
then took a slip of paper and began to 
reckon; at length he named a sum to which 
the other eagerly agreed. 

Herr Schott took another paper, in order 
to write a formal statement, and said: 

"I must ask for your name." 

"Is that necessary? Well, no matter. 
My name is George Demmin." 

The banker took down the name, and 
went on with his work. At length he 
handed the stranger the paper, made out, 
as it seemed, with unnecessary care, with 
the words: 

" Have the goodness to show this to my 
cashier." 

The stranger took the paper with a nod 
and an "I thank you," and w£iit. 

Ferdinand came forward to the light. 
"I believe, cousin," said he, "your clerk 
was wiser than you, this time. What if the 
paper were stolen?" 

" We must not be so suspicious, cousin," 
answered the banker. 1 ' We must not be so 
ready to believe the worst of our neighbor; 
that does not speak well for one's own char- 
acter. Beside, I looked in my book con- 
taining the numbers of stolen papers, and 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



21 



this is not among them. If it is stolen, it 
lias not yet been made public." 

" So, then, in spite of your noble freedom 
from suspicion, you took the precaution to 
look in the book," said Ferdinand, laughing. 

"Only as a formality. The man was no 
swindler; that you could tell from his face. 
If he had been, he would not have appeared 
so impatient." 

In the meantime, Ferdinand had cast a 
glance at the i:>aper as it lay upon the desk. 
He looked for a moment at the colored 
print, and the pretty vignettes and stamps; 
then, just as his eyes were turning away, 
they were arrested by a name written with 
ink, in quite small letters, but distinctly, on 
the upper edge at the back. " Philip Bon- 
sart," he read, and then exclaimed: 

"Oh, ho, cousin, we have made an inter- 
esting acquaintance without knowing it. 
The stranger was Philip Bonsart. I saw by 
his face that his real name was not George 
Demmin. He threw it at you with such a 
mocking air. Evidently he had forgotten 
that he had written his real name up here 
on the edge of the paper." 

" Philip Bonsart !" said the banker; " that 
wild fellow that was known as the ring- 
leader among the insurgents in '49, and had 
to fly, and then appeared again in the Baden 
revolution — the democrat, and communist, 
and demagogue ? Do you really believe it 
was he ?" 

"I am convinced of it; it certainly was 
that 'Mirabeau of the Luneburg Heath.' 
I have never seen him, but the descriptions 
I have heard of him agree exactly with this 
man's appearance. At any rate, I can easily 
find out; I have only to describe him to the 
Melroths; they must know him." 

1 ' The Melroths ? Why ? ' ' 

" He is from their old estate. He is the 
son of the former steward and present pro- 
prietor. Herr von Melroth, who is gener- 
ally a good-natured old fellow, once fell 
into a confidential mood, and told me, an- 
grily, how this Bonsart had deceived and 
cheated him, till at length he was able to 
buy the estate, and sit in the hereditary 
dwelling of Herr von Melroth's ancestors, 
like a rascally, impertinent Davison in the 
castles of the Avenels." 



"Ah," said the banker, "that is the 
morbid idea of every weakling who has 
lost his property by his own carelessness 
and stupidity. They have always been 
cheated by their stewards or agents." 

" That may be," answered Ferdinand; "I 
do not know. I only know that Herr von 
Melroth cherishes the deepest hatred toward 
his former steward and present successor; 
and if one may judge of the tree by the 
apple, he may have reason for it. Philip 
Bonsart ! I must tell the Melroths at once 
of this remarkable meeting. Where can he 
come from, and why does he venture to be 
seen here ? So far as I know, the warrant 
for his arrest has never been withdrawn." 

"He must have fled to America, and he 
j seems to have had some good-fortune there; 
i otherwise he would not have had this thou- 
l sand-dollar bond to sell. Perhaps his 
[ communistic views have been somewhat 
changed. How he ventures to allow himself 
to be seen here is, indeed, hard to under- 
stand; I doubt whether it was really he, 
after all." 

" I can very soon find out by describing 
him to the Melroths," said Ferdinand, tak- 
ing his hat, as if to go; 4 ' but," he added, 
turning back to the banker, "I cannot go 
back there without carrying to them the re- 
sult of my mission to you. So, may I not, 
Johann Heinrich, great cousin, most bril- 
liant representative of our Scottish clan, 
rock of our confidence, and inexhaustible 
fountain of generosity for all us poor rela- 
tions, brave, noble, ever-constant benefac- 
tor, model of an unselfish, lofty, noble 
mind, finding its only pleasure in lavishing 
favors upon others 

"Well," he said, suddenly interrupting 
the stream of his own eloquence, and speak- 
ing in a changed voice, "does not your 
native modesty compel you at last to cut 
short this panegyric, this high-flown eulo- 
gium, with the words, 'Yes, yes, yes; only 
stop, only be silent; I will give Alexander 
the sum he needs ' " 

"Then I should be the first," laughed 
the banker, "to pay eight thousand thalers 
for the privilege of not hearing his own 
praises." 

"Shall I, then, take the opposite course, 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



and make yon out so fearfully bad that you 

will buy my silence with the promise " 

"Heavens!" said the distressed banker, 
" the affair is certainly not so pressing but 
that we can take a little time to reflect 
whether some other way may not be found 

" Can money be made by reflection ? If 
it were, how wise and thoughtful the faces 
of all mortals would growl But, Johann 
Heinrich, you know very well that wisdom 
and thoughtfulness are not the means for 
getting money. Therefore, make up your 
mind; you will not get rid of me until you 
do, and you see by the clock there that it is 
time for you to go to your club." 

Johann Heinrich Schott passed his hand 
several times over the back of his head, 
muttered something between his teeth, and 
said, at length, drawing his tawny brows 
together, wrathfully: 

"The cup, indeed, will not pass from 
me. But I will give the promise to Alex- 
ander himself, so that for my money I may 
at least have the pleasure of telling him 
again what a stupid thing he is doing. Tell 
Mm to come himself." 

"With pleasure, cousin; he shall come, 
and you shall see how ungrudgingly he 
will grant you the pleasure of telling him 
the truth roundly. Other people try to 
gild the bitter pills they give. You are 
nobler; you give your golden gifts only a 
little embittered, like green-shelled walnuts 
with sweet kernels. That is true philan- 
thropy, and I thank you from the bottom 
of my heart." 

The banker did not seem to think any 
formal answer called for. He hastily 
pressed the hand Ferdinand offered, and 
began to close his desk and prepare to go. 

Ferdinand was now anxious to get back 
to Herr von Melroth's; he, therefore, took 
his leave hastily, and was very soon in the 
street, now quite dark. 



CHAPTER V. 

IN THE OLD HALL. 

It had been a bright morning. In the af- 
ternoon the sky grew cloudy, but without 
threatening immediate rain; Ferdinand was, 
therefore, surprised when he found that a 
light, drizzling rain was falling; he did not 
at first take much notice of it, but it soon 
began to make itself felt on his elegant din- 
ner-suit, which was protected only by a 
light overcoat. He had no umbrella, and, 
therefore, quickened his steps in the direc- 
tion of Melroth's house. From a wise 
economy, the gas-lamps were not lighted, 
since the almanac promised moonlight, and 
hence the walking over the wretched pave- 
ments was doubly unpleasant. 

Not very far from his destination he 
came to a narrow and dark alley, leading to 
the right from the street he was passing 
through. It was the one that led to the 
rear of Herr von Melroth's house. Ferdi- 
nand felt in the side-pocket of his overcoat 
and found there the key his landlady had 
given to him two evenings before, and 
which had been left by the carpenter em- 
ployed to make arrangements for the thea- 
tre. With this he could open the door 
from the alley, and then pass through to the 
front part of the house. It would make his 
walk considerably shorter, and though it 
must be very dark on the stairs and in the 
hall, still the place was so well-known to 
him . that he would rather grope his way 
through than make the circuit necessary to 
reach the front part of the house, especially 
as the rain was growing heavier. 

He walked rapidly through the alley, and 
soon reached the door of the old building 
which extended directly across the end of 
the alley. Over the door was a deep pro- 
jecting canopy. He was just about to draw 
the great old key from his breast-pocket, 
when he observed, with surprise, that one 
side of this door was slowly and carefully 
opened, and a figure stepped out, shutting 
the door carefully behind it, and then 
turned, as if to make sure that the bolt had 
entered the lock. 

Ferdinand had stopped, so that the sound 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



23 



of bis footsteps might not draw the atten- 
tion of this figure to lihnself before he had 
had time to recognize it. Now, as it de- 
scended the steps, and observed him, it 
stopped close to him, and he said, in a low 
tone: 

" Who are yon ? Why, I really believe it 
is you, my gallant friend Emil ! But where 
the dickens are you coming from ? You 
walk as noiselessly as a cat !" 

"You, Herr von Schott?" answered Emil 
Drausfeld, drawing a long breath and stam- 
mering a little — he was evidently confused 
by this sudden, unexpected meeting; * 4 it is 
I. And you, where are you going?" 

" I was going through the hall to save a 
few steps in the rain," answered Ferdinand. 

" I took this way, too," said Emil, very 
quickly, " to shorten my walk a little." 

"You? But your way does not bring 
you to this side, it takes you in the oppo- 
site direction. " 

"Does it?" said Emil, half inaudibly, 
"You see I must have taken a little too 
much at dinner, so that I am slightly con- 
fused. Come, take me home. You will be 
doing a benevolent work. " 

" No, my good friend, you show altogeth- 
er too much cunning in inventing a pretext 
for your strango appearance here, to allow 
me to feel any anxiety about your finding 
your way home. Go on with Heaven's pro- 
tection. I am wet enough already." 

"Where are you going, then? Back to 
Melroth's?" said Emil, grasping his arm 
hastily. "You are no longer expected 
there. The company is all broken up; Herr 
von Melroth has gone to the club, and your 
cousin has started for home, and the ladies 
have retired to their own rooms. Come, let 
us hurry, and get out of this rain and under 
shelter." 

With this Emil hurried on and drew Fer- 
dinand with him. 

Ferdinand tried to remember whether it 
had not been agreed that they should await 
his return from the banker's at Herr von 
Melroth's. Possibly they had not. He 
might only have taken it for granted. 

" Have you, then, a key to the old hall?" 
asked Emil, after a pause. 

" I happen to have with me the key that 



was given to the carpenter who did the 
work for the theatre. Ho returned it to 
me," answered Ferdinand. 

Emil walked on so rapidly that Ferdinand 
could hardly keep up with him, and had 
scarcely a chance to reflect on the strange 
circumstance that his friend had left the 
house by that route, and that he had been 
so evidently confused at meeting him. But 
by degrees the strangeness of the circum- 
stance came over him, and he resolved to 
get rid of Emil, and find out whether he had 
told the truth in regard to the breaking up 
of the company at Herr von Melroth's. 

He stopped at the next cross street, and 
said, 1 ' From here you must find your way 
alone, friend Emil; the rain is getting un- 
endurable. I will take shelter with an 
acquaintance that lives in this street. " 

" Well, then, good night !" 

Ferdinand passed a short distance down 
the street, and then turned and went back. 
The sound of Emil's steps had died away in 
the distance. Ferdinand's suspicions were 
awakened, and his thoughts took him back 
to the old hall. Yf as Emil in reality Elsie's 
favorite, and had she led him out by that 
way, so that their tender leave-taking might 
be undisturbed? But, in that case, why 
should Emil have been so anxious to pre- 
vent him from going through the old hall ? 
The best way to avoid a mistaken inference 
was to return to his former project, and 
enter the house by the way he had proposed; 
perhaps he should find Elsie still there, or 
something else that would exxDlain Emil's 
distress about his design. 

He, therefore, retraced his steps at the risk 
of getting wet through, though the rain had 
abated, and was now a fine drizzling mist. 
When he arrived at the door of the old 
hall, and looked up, everything was black, 
the outlines of the high windows could 
scarcely be distinguished. Ferdinand saw 
that he would hardly be able to make any 
great discoveries in this darkness; but he 
had started on the way and so went on, not- 
withstanding the risk of stumbling, or 
striking his head against some obstruction 
in the dark passages. The key, which had 
been often used of late, opened the door 
without noise; the old winding staircase be- 



24 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



hind it was made of sandstone steps and 
gave back no sound from his footfalls. He 
had nearly reached the narrow arched door 
that led from the staircase into the hall; it 
must have been half open or merely swung 
together, for at the last turn of the stairs 
he distinctly heard a hasty whispering of 
voices in the hall, a suppressed but lively 
conversation. 

He stopped, in surprise, and held his 
breath; it was impossible to understand any- 
thing, impossible even to recognize the 
voices. He must venture to go a little far- 
ther. He ascended the last steps with noise- 
less care; then, looking through the half- 
open door, he could see nothing but the 
nearest of the deep window-recesses, which 
was distinguished by a gray shimmer from 
the rest of the wall. He drew a few long 
breaths and then stretched his head forward 
to hear as much as possible of the conversa- 
tion of two persons, whose outlines he at 
length perceived dimly, far within the hall. 

They were in front of another window far- 
ther from the door, through which also a 
faint gray light glimmered from without. 
One was a man, leaning agauast the wall, the 
other a woman, who seemed to be sitting 
near him on a foot-stool. Ferdinand soon 
discovered that she was sitting in a kind of 
step, fastened to the wall below the window 
seat. The man stood near her, leaning 
against the wall; his back was turned to 
Ferdinand. 

It was impossible to understand what 
they said, and Ferdinand dared not venture 
nearer; he could catch only now and then 
a word of their eager whispers; but he soon 
distinguished the voices. One was Elsie's. 
The man's voice seemed strange to him at 
first, and then familiar, as if he had heard 
it very recently — and then — then he knew 
to whom it belonged — it was the same voice 
he had heard scarcely an hour ago at his 
cousin, the banker's, the voice of the fugi- 
tive, the traitor, the communist ! 

Ferdinand grew alternately hot and cold. 
His heart seemed to stand still — he could 
have uttered a cry of rage and have rushed 
upon this man in his fury ! 

Elsie in a secret conversation with this 
man, this Philip Bonsart ! And in this haH 



at night ! Sitting at his feet, and — as Fer- 
dinand thought he detected, though he was 
not quite sure — with her arm raised and his 
hand held tenderly in her own ! 

It was a terrible experience to Ferdinand, 
that of these few minutes. In his excite- 
ment, his pain at what seemed to him like 
fiendish treason against his love, he breathed 
so heavily that they must have heard him, 
if they had not been so thoroughly ab- 
sorbed in what they were saying; and at 
this moment it would not have made much 
difference to him if he had been discovered 
— if he could have been brought to a hostile 
encounter with his fortunate rival; if he 
could have had the chance to strike him 
dead ! The thought that such an encounter 
might have been more serious in its results 
to him, than to the robust young man whose 
tall and powerful form was dimly outlined 
before him, did not once occur to him. 
But gradually he became conscious of his 
disgraceful position as a listener — a listener, 
while at the same time it was quite impossi- 
ble for him to understand anything'* he 
heard only a few words which Elsie spoke 
in a more excited and louder voice, but 
which gave him no idea — "Asthof" — the 
name of Herr von Melroth's former estate; 
" Chaplain Heimdal" — a name entirely un- 
known to Ferdinand, and then "Matilda's 
company; there is no objection to that 
now." Where Matilda should accompany 
or be accompanied, Ferdinand could not 
discover; in the answer the young man 
gave, he could distinguish only the word3 
4 'Hamburg" and " The Thfrsuelda. " 

Ferdinand could endure his position no 
longer. With the desperation in bis heart, 
it was impossible for him to stand there any 
longer still and breathless. He was just 
about to turn and withdraw noiselessly, 
when his attention was again arrested, and 
he peered with redoubled interest into the 
darkness; he thought he saw Elsie withdraw 
her hand from that of the man before iier, 
and hide her face in both her hands, and 
he thought he heard a low sobbing. It wa3 
strange. The conversation of the two 
seemed to have been of a quiet nature — 
why should she have been so suddenly over- 
come by violent sorrow? It could not, 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



23 



however, have been very surprising to the 
man before her; he stood silent for a short 
time, then bent down and kissed her fore- 
head; after that he stood erect again and 
eeemed to be waiting quietly for her to re- 
gain her composure. 

Ferdinand had had enough. He began to 
retreat quietly, and succeeded, with the 
greatest cautfon, in reaching the door be- 
hind him. His oxit was noticed no more 
than his entrance had been. He glided 
down the stairs, cautiously opened and shut 
the outside door, and was in the alley again. 

He stood still for a while, to recover from 
the stunning effect of what he had seen, 
and regain his self-control — to ask himself, 
too, whether anything was to be done. As 
if anything could be done! As if every- 
thing were not forever at an end for him; as 
if he could not now tell himself what a vain, 
ridiculous fool he had been with his confi- 
dence; his vain assurance in believing he 
could gain Elsie by his infallible method, 
while she — and the thought drove him to 
desperation — she had not been feigning the 
contempt she manifested for his attentions; 
it was no maidenly reserve, no mere form 
assumed for a time by girlish pride; it had 
been serious earnest, because her heart was 
full of this man who had long possessed it ! 
It was enough to drive him to desperation — 
the deep humiliation, and the sudden hope- 
lessness ! 

He could not entirely comprehend it, not 
realize it — this irremediable hopelessness. 
Ferdinand's love for Elsie had in reality 
been only the love of a self-conscious, vain 
young man, filling only half the heart, and 
leaving room for a hundred other interests 
and ambitious plans. But now, under the 
smart of this sudden revelation, it seemed 
to him as if, with the loss of Elsie, the 
ground was drawn away from under his 
feet; as if existence were no longer possible 
for him; as if the best relief would be that 
of the unhappy girl who had rushed from 
that fatal hall to her death in the waters of 
the river. He had a sudden understanding 
of such passion — he, too, could have com- 
mitted murder in his wrath, in this terrible 
storm that was laying waste his whole exist- 
ence. 



He wandered about the streets in his tor- 
turing excitement. The rain had ceased, 
and the wind was driving black clouds 
across the pale face of the moon; the old 
houses with their projecting gables were 
looking with a sullen and hostile expression 
into the streets they darkened; the gro- 
tesque old carving on their fagades and the 
quaint projecting gargoyles looked down, 
dark and phantom-like, on the few passers- 
by, like a wild race of kobolds. 

But few houses were lighted. In H. the 
streets were deserted at an early hour; but 
few shopkeepers found it profitable to 
light their show-windows in the evening. 
The dwellings had the deserted air seen al- 
most everywhere at night. Whole fagades 
were completely dark — a window lighted 
only here and there through the length of 
an entire block. It would seem that men 
feel the want of very little light — as if God 
had made the sun quite unnecessarily large 
— they could have got along with a much 
more modest outlay; less intellectual light, 
too, would have served them quite as well; 
they find no use for the greater part of it. 

So Ferdinand wandered aimlessly through 
these dead, deserted streets, until his 
thoughts turned from his own sufferings to 
his cousin, whose interests had been*so sud- 
denly thrown into the background — his 
cousin Alexander, who must be awaiting 
him in the greatest suspense, and who, it 
occurred to Mm, was, after himself, most 
deeply concerned in what he had just dis- 
covered — most deeply and most painfully. 

As an officer, it could by no means be a 
matter of indifference to him that the sister 
of his bride should stand in so intimate a 
relation to such a notorious demagogue and 
traitor. Ferdinand, therefore, resolved to 
seek him and impart to him his discovery. 
But on the way he was obliged to pass the 
house where Emil Drausfeld lived. He 
noticed a light behind Emil's windows, and 
was suddenly seized with a desire for an 
explanation of Elsie's relation to this Bon- 
sart; forgetting the suspense of his waiting 
cousin, he turned to go up to Emil's room, 
and compel him to explain the whole affair, 
since he seemed to be initiated as their con- 
fidant and assistant 



23 



FIRE AXD FLAME. 



He found Emil in a modest little study, 
which was in the greatest disorder. There 
was very little to remind one of Emil's fu- 
ture occupation: a pair of antlers fastened 
on the wall, to serve as a hat-rack, was all 
that seemed connected with a forester's 
calling, excepting the green Tyrolese hat, 
adorned with a chamois-hair and a black 
cock's feather, which lay upon an open 
music-book on an old piano. The piano 
was open; a flute lay in an open case on a 
round table in front of an old hair-cloth 
sofa, under a dismal, smoky lamp. Emil 
did uot seem in the mood for his favorite 
occupation; he had been walking slowly 
back and forth in his narrow room, his 
head dropped, and his face expressing the 
deepest melancholy; there was something 
about the tall, slender, and bent form to re- 
mind one of a weeping- willow. 

As Ferdinand stepped in, after a hasty 
knock, Emil's face expressed no surprise — 
only a mild sort of inquiry, as if he were 
just awakened from a dream. 

' 1 Emil," said Ferdinand, throwing his 
hat on the table and himself on the hair- 
cloth sofa, " I have come to say to you that 
you are a false, deceitful friend: yes, you, 
in spite of that pious, patient expression of 
yours." 

"I a false friend?" asked Emil, quiet- 
ly, and not in the least startled out of 
his apathetic mood; " why do you say 
that?" 

" Because you lied to me shamefully, to 
keep me from going into the old hall at 
Melroth's; because, when you uttered your 
diplomatic warnings, you gave only dark 
and unintelligible hints, when you could 
have told me the whole truth." 

" Could have told you the truth ? "What 
truth could I have told you?" 

" The whole truth; can't you understand ? 
The whole truth that I have come now to 
demand. You are playing a fine role, Emil, 
to be the confidant of a man like this Philip 
Bonsart; to be used by him as a sentinel to 
guard his tryst with Elsie I "Was it for this 
that you were received with so much friend- 
liness at Melroth's house? How will you 
answer for it to her father when he hears of 
it ? And he shall hear of it, I promise you, 



unless you give at once a complete explana- 
tion t" 

Emil looked perplexed while his visitor's 
wrath was being heaped upon him. 

After a pause, he answered: "Moderate 
your fire a little, Herr von Schott. If Herr 
von Melroth has a right to call me to ac- 
count, it does not follow that you have. I 
do not understand what you mean; I do not 
understand you at all." 

" You do not understand me ? The deuce 
you don't; I am not talking forester science. 
I want you to explain how Elsie von Mel- 
roth and this cursed communist have come 
together; how the thoughtless creature can 
so throw herself away, can meet him in that 
dark hall, and how you can be a party to 
it, and stand there as a sentinel !" 

Daring Ferdinand's violent speech, Emil 
had stood in the middle of the room, look- 
ing at him with great eyes. At its close, he 
turned and drew a handful of cigars from 
the drawer of a little table, and, placiug 
them before Ferdinand, said, with perfect 
composure : 

"Take one. It will quiet you. I will 
light one, too, and then we can talk. What 
do you say to a little grog ? I have some- 
thing here to make it with. We are both in 
wet clothes. Yours perhaps may be dried 
by the fire of your indignation, but mine 
are not. I am of a lymphatic temperament, 
you know. I am chilly." 

With this he opened a cupboard and 
brought out some sugar, a bottle, and a 
couple of glasses. A teapot, containing hot 
water, stood in a niche in the stove. 

"If you had not come," he said, "I 
should have forgotten, in my abstraction, 
that my landlady had brought me the 
water. Is it hot enough now? If not, I 
will ring for some more. W r hat do you 
think? I think it will do." 

"Yes, it's plenty hot enough for what 
you want of it; you are making your grog 
to get time to reflect what story you had 
better tell me," answered Ferdidand, wrath- 
fully, who had been following with lrSs eyes 
Emil's quiet, phlegmatic movements. 

"No," answered Emil, coolly, "there 
you are mistaken. I really want the grog, 
to prevent my taking cold, and you cannot 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



27 



make any objection if that seems more im- 
portant to me than answering your stormy 
questions. Have some." 

Emil emptied half of his glass, and sat 
down quietly beside Ferdinand on the sofa; 
then lighted his cigar, and smoked in silence 
for a few moments. 

"You see, my dear Schott," he began, 
" you must not be surprised at my taking 
your excitement so coolly. Every one has 
his turn, and when one has got through 
his own trouble he naturally looks coolly at 
auother who is just floundering in his. 
When one shipwrecked man has got safe to 
shore he looks with perfect equanimity at 
another close behind him who is still strug- 
gling with the waves. Don't you think so ? 
I think that is natural to human selfishness. " 

"That is to say?" 

" That is to say that it is the unalterable 
fate of all of us here to fall in love with 
Elsie Melroth — your cousin, you, I, and 
tutti quanta Your cousin has been the 
wisest of any of us; he did not wait for the 
hopelessness of his case to be unmistakably 
proved to him, but transferred his affections 
to Matilda. But I clung to my foolish 
dreams until a terrible awakening came, and 
it seemed to me as if all the waves had gone 
over me. That was when Elsie came to me 
and said, with charming frankness : 

" ' Herr Drausfeld, you are my friend, are 
you not, my true, firm friend V 

" 4 Certainly, Fraulein Elsie,' I answered, 
enthusiastically: 'certainly; you know I 
am.' 

44 4 And if I should ask you, you would not 
refuse me a great favor, for which I can 
never repay you?' 

44 4 1 would die for you,' I answered, and 
I am sure my whole face must have beamed 
at this promising beginning of oui con- 
versation. ' 

44 * I rely upon you/ answered Elsie. * I 
trust you fully. You need not die for me, 
but you must swear to die rather than be- 
tray my secret. Will you swear it V 

4 ' 4 1 swear it. 

44 4 1 thank you, Herr Drausfeld, for being 
so very, very good to me — as good as a bro- 
ther. I have never had a brother, but I am 
sure one could not be better to me than you 



are. So it will not be hard for me to be 
frank with you. Hear, Emil; I am engaged, 
have been for years. But nobody mast 
know it, nobody. I am engaged to Philip 
Bonsart. We grew up together at Asthof. 
My father hates Philip's father as his worst 
enemy. He thinks Herr Bonsart deceived 
him, and cheated him out of his estate. 
And, then, Philip is so enthusiastic, so free- 
thinking and high-spirited, such an un- 
tamable fellow when once his enthusiasm is 
awakened. Hence, as you must have heard, 
he got into the worst kind of trouble, into 
the revolt and the revolution, and then he 
had to fly; and now he has come back from 
America, where he has found a very good 
position: he is so active and so determined 
when once he has begun a thing to carry it 
through. He has already secured an ex- 
cellent place, and has the surest prospect of 
becoming very, very rich. So he has come 
back, and now we will be married.' " 

14 Married !" exclaimed Ferdinand, almost 
crushed by the story. 

44 Yes, married; so Elsie said, as quietly 
as if it were the most indifferent word a 
young girl can speak — very much as a chikl 
would say, 4 Now we will dress our dolls. ' 
'Married?' I exclaimed, so startled that I 
had to catch my breath; but she answered, 
'Yes, of course, married, now that Philip 
has a situation and a home to take a wife 
to. He has come back for that. He is 
now at Asthof. The chaplain there is to 
marry us, but it is to be kept entirely secret. 
For, in the first place, my father must not 
know anything about it. When we get to 
America we will try to reconcile him to 
what we have done, and I am sure we shall 
succeed. But now he must not know any- 
thing about it. And, then, no one, no one 
at all must know that Philip Bonsart is 
here. He is a fugitive and is persecuted by 
the courts, and if he should be caught it 
would be terrible. So it must be kept a 
perfect secret; Chaplain Heimdel, at Asthof, 
who is a friend of Philip's, will marry us in 
the chapel at Asthof at night. Philip is 
sure that he will. He will give him a hun- 
dred thalers for the poor of the congrega- 
tion if he does it. So that is all arranged. 
But, now, I must see Philip beforehand, to 



23 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



make some arrangements with him, and for 
that he will have to come here. He has 
some other business in the city also. Now, 
where can he stay while he is in the place, 
and who can bring him to me ? There are 
many people in the city who know him, so 
that he can venture to come only with the 
utmost precaution, and he cannot ask the 
way to our house and come there. He might 
run against my father. I can talk with him 
in our old hall; no one will disturb us there. 
And you, Emil, you- must help us. You 
will j will you not? You are so good — I 
trust you so — I do not know what I would 
not confide to you. We must have some 
friend, too, some witness at our marriage. 
I have thought I should like to ask you, but 
that can be arranged hereafter. For the 
present I would like to have you take Philip 
to your room, perhaps only for one, or, at 
the most, two nights. You will do that, 
will you not, for my sake ? And you must 
be silent as the grave about it to every one, 
eveiy one! And then you must bring 
Philip to the old hall through the alley in 
the rear; the carpenter has the key now, 
but there must be another; I will get that 
for you, and' — well that is about what Frau- 
lein Elsie said, and I promised everything; 
and now you know what you wanted to. 
How I felt at the frank recital of this lovely 
romance would be of little interest to you. 
Perhaps something as you feel now at mak- 
ing the discovery — Heaven knows where 
and how — that for you, too, love's labor is 
lost — the discovery that came to me from 
Elsie's honest and trusting confession. 
Perhaps not much less desperate and not 
less strongly tempted to suicide ! But what 
is the use of falling into such desperation ? 
* Lost love, lost life' is an old story. But 
it is well for us that we see at once how 
hopelessly lost it is, that we are spared the 
long agony of vibrating between hope and 
despair. For that seems to be the case with 
you as well as with me. How did you find 
out ? Did you go back to the old hall and 
witness the rendezvous to which I itook the 
American? Or did Fraulein Elsie at last 
admit you to her touching confidence?" 

"No, she did not; I saw their meeting. 
So, then, you yielded to everything that I 



Elsie asked. You took in this Philip Bon- 
sart, and led him to the house ?" 

"Certainly; how could I do otherwise? 
"Would you have acted differently ? 1 did 
not exactly take him in — you need not be 
afraid that he may come in here at any min- 
ute — I found lodgings for him in a neigh- 
boring house, at a mechanic's, who had 
some unoccupied rooms. The oath I made 
to Elsie to be silent as the grave about the 
whole affair I have broken in regard to you. 
But I saw that you had already discovered 
it, and so I have told you all." 

Emil Drausfeld lighted his cigar again 
and emptied his glass. 

Ferdinand sat moody and absorbed, his 
arms resting on -the table, and his eyes fixed 
on a knotty place in the top of it. The 
glass Emil had placed before him, he had 
pushed away, untouched. 

"I wish, Drausfeld," he said, at length, 
"you had been more frank at the time you 
warned me so mysteriously. I could then 
have warned my cousin against an alliance 
with the family. I think now I must put 
the question to him, whether he can or will 
become the brother in-law of such a notori- 
ous demagogue." 
Emil threw a suspicious glance at him. 
"So," he said, "you think less of your 
own disappointment than of the injury to 
your cousin's prospects ? To speak can- 
didly, Schott, that seems to me not a very 
noble trait of character in you. It looks to 
me as if your ultimate purpose were to use 
your cousin, who now almost belongs to the 
family, to betray the affair to the old gen- 
tleman, and he, you think, will interfere 
and separate them before it is too late. Do 
not dream of such a thing ! If you should 
make use of what you have seen acciden- 
tally, and what I have told you, it would 
be ungentlemanly and base. But it would 
also be useless, and you would gain nothing 
whatever by it. You would not raise your- 
self in Elsie's estimation, and as for separa- 
ting her from her Philip, there is not the 
slightest prospect of it !" 

Ferdinand sat and stared a while at the • 
spot on the table. Emil threw aside his 
cigar, sprang up, and renewed his walk back 
and forth through the room. 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



29 



"Let us console ourselves," lie said, at 
length, "and take the affair philosophically. 
It may be harder for you, as it is perhaps 
the first blank you have drawn from the lot- 
tery of fate — at least since you have been 
grown up. Those little blanks which we 
now and then receive when we have staked 
our very best, even our whole hearts, are 
more familiar to me. And so I know better 
how to console myself. I repeat to myself 
what great men who understood women 
have said, as, for instance, ' Give a woman 
your heart, and she will give you sorrow and 
smart. ' ' A woman is never worth what a 
man suffers for her. ' This Elsie is a fire- 
brand, and a wild fellow like this American 
is just the man for her; over there she can 
set the woods on fire without doing much 
damage; for our modest hearths such a wild 
flame would be a little too much. God give 
her all happiness in her new home !" 

"And you," said Ferdinand, bitterly, 
" you talk like that, after you have professed 
to love her ? "W ell, it is not to be wondered 
at in such a meek soul — one that could con- 
sent to be used as their postilion d 'amour, 
as their sentinel, as their marriage wit cess, 
and even — perhaps you will give her away, 
too ? No," he cried, springing up in anger 
and stamping his foot, "away with your 
sorry comfort. My only consolation would 
be in strangling this fellow, this Bonsart, 
before her eyes." 

Crossing his arms over his chest, he stood 
silent for a while; then suddenly took his 
hat and said: 

" I must be alone. I will take the night 
to think over what is to be done. To-mor- 
row " 

"What is to be done, Schott?" cried 
Emil, seizing him by the arm and holding 
him back. " To settle that, I think you 
have no need of solitude, or of any great 
amount of time. You can do just nothing. 
If anything could be done in such a case, 
then it wouldn't be such a cursed, madden- 
ing position to be placed in ! Give up all 
idea of doing anything. There are but two 
results possible: either you will make your- 
self ridiculous as a despised lover, or you 
will draw on yourself the reproach of hav- 
ing acted ignobly and basely." 



Ferdinand looked at him as if he had not 
understood his words. 

" That may be," he answered, in a strange 
and absent tone, then turned and walked 
quickly out. Emil took up the lamp and 
hurried to the door to light him down the 
stairs; but he was already nearly out of the 
buildirg. 



CHAPTER VI. 

A BUKGLAHV. 

Nothing to be done ! To do nothing, to 
acquiesce silently in the decision that noth- 
ing could be done, that Elsie was irrecovera- 
bly lost, to look squarely in the face the 
fact that she had long ago given her love to 
this Philip Bonsart, and would soon be his 
wife — it was a terrible cup that destiny 
pressed to Ferdinand's passionate lips. 
And yet it was not merely the cold-blooded 
advice of his friend, it was also the conclu- 
sion that Ferdinand, himself, could not 
escape after a night of sleepless struggle 
against the iron force of the unalterable. 

On the next day he avoided all his ac- 
quaintances. He did not see his cousin, 
Alexander, or go to Herr von Melroth's. 
He sent his cousin a few written words in 
the morning, telling him of the banker's 
promise. He would not see Elsie again — 
but to betray her secret, even to his cousin, 
he no longer thought of it. Emil was right. 
It would have been base and unknightly. 
He could not reproach Elsie in the least. 
She had not coquetted with him, or with 
any one. She had not given him any hope; 
the hopes he had made for himself had been 
those of an over-confident fool; in all his 
passionate excitement he was just enough 
to confess that to himself. 

On the second day he spent the morning 
at his rooms, as he had the whole of the 
preceding day. He was expecting a call 
from his cousin, who, he thought, would 



30 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



probably come to-day, to thank him for 
what he had done. He was more firmly re- 
solved to betray nothing to his coudn than 
he had been the day before; and yet he half 
unconsciously feared the first meeting; he 
feared himself ; he doubted his own self-con- 
trol in case his cousin should speak of Elsie. 

About ten o'clock there was a knock at 
the door. He cried " Come in," and looked 
up, expecting to see the captain enter. 
But it was not he; it was the barber-. 

" Do I come at the right time, Herr von 
Schott?" he said. 

Ferdinand nodded and gave himself up to 
the man's care. But he had scarcely begun 
operations, when he cried out : — 

"Well, what do you think of it, Herr 
von Schott, of this bold burglary?" 

« < Burglary ? What burglary ? ' ' 

"Don't you know that yet, Herr von 
Schott? of the recent burglary at your 
cousin's — 

"The captain's?" 

" The captain's ? Oh, no !" said the bar- 
ber, smiling; " they do not so often under- 
take such things at the houses of officers. 
I mean the banker, Schott." 

"The banker? Has there been a burg- 
lary there?" 

"Yes, last night. The thieves got into 
the court, and forced off one of the window- 
shutters of the room where the money is 
kept; but they could do nothing with the 
iron bars over the window." 

"But the clerk always sleeps there, I 
believe." 

"Ifes, but not last night. Your cousin 
had given him permission to stay at home 
with his sick wife." 

" Ah ! and the theives knew it? ;s 

"It seems so; but it did not help them 
much. They succeeded in getting into 
your cousin's ante-room, and from there 
into his back room. They took a paper of 
considerable value, so it is said, and that is 
all they found. " 

"That is strange," said Ferdinand; "a 
paper they found in the writing-desk in my 
cousin's room ?" 

" So I heard only a moment ago; it ia all 
over town, and it is said the police have 
their suspicions," 



"What kind of a police would they be if 
they had no suspicions?" said Ferdinand, 
smiling and 'thoughtful. "Have you fin- 
ished, Herr Markoetter?" 

"Yes, in a moment," answered Herr 
Markoetter, moving his long hands briskly, 
as he gave the finishing touches. 

When the process was ended, and Herr 
Markoetter had flown to other fortunate 
customers to whom he could tell the news, 
Ferdinand hastily finished his toilet and 
hurried to his cousin's. There was no trace 
outside of the attempt that had been made; 
everything was as quiet as usual; the clerks 
were sitting at their desks and writing; the 
messenger only ran past Ferdinand with a 
face more flushed than usual, carrying his 
bills of exchange and bags of money; and 
as Ferdinand entered his cousin's office, he 
met a policeman who seemed to have just 
finished an interview with the banker. 

" I have come for a visit of condolence," 
said Ferdinand. "I have just heard, cou- 
sin, that you had a robbery here last night." 

"Yes," answered Johann Heinrich, "and 
it was committed with most remarkable 
boldness ! Fortunately, the thieves accom- 
plished only a part of their design. They 
did not succeed in opening the safe, but 
they opened this writing-desk with a pick- 
lock, and took out a valuable paper — why, 
you were here when I bought it from that 
American, day before yesterday — that is the 
paper they stole. I neglected giving it to 
the cashier, but, in my confusion, I locked 
it up here. In reality, you are to blame for 
it, you alone, or, rather, that stupid love- 
story of yours. " 

" Oh, you are jesting I" 

"Jesting? Would you jest if you had 
just lost one thousand dollars? It would 
be just like you, though. But I am not 
jesting. You had confused me with your 
demand for money for Alexander, and , it 
was that that excited me, and made me so 
absent-minded and careless. You see what 
you have done." 

"Oh," answered Ferdinand, smiling, 
" my conscience is perfectly clear. You are 
not the man to lose your presence of mind 
over a matter of eight thousand thalers; 
| on the contrary " 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



31 



" Tou don't believe me ? I tell you it is 
so. But I will make no reproaches. A 
banker should not allow himself to be con- 
fused. I have been punished for it, and 
will take the punishment with composure. 
And if the police cannot recover my thou- 
sand dollars for me — and I have little hope 
that they will — then I will put it down, un- 
complainingly, in my account of losses. 
The poor man that broke in at my window 
may have a cousin who is in need of a set- 
tlement. And as he has none of your per- 
suasive eloquence, but instead of it, au- 
dacity and pick-locks, he took that way of 
applying to the good-natured Johann Hein- 
rich Schott. Why should we make a great 
ado about that? Every one must help him- 
self the best way he can. " 

** I see the affair has made you very sar- 
castic. But I think you gire up your thou- 
sand dollars for lost very hastily." 

" Do you think the police can recover it 
for me? Commissary Groebler, who has 
just left me, says that two very dangerous 
tramps, just discharged from the penitenti- 
ary at W. , passed through here yesterday, 
giving out at the hotel that they were on 
their way home. He has already taken 
steps to have them arrested. This lively 
Herr Groebler, by the way, seems to me a 
phoenix of a police officer." 

* 4 Does their way of breaking in indicate 
professional thieves?" asked Ferdinand. 
" How did they operate ? They first broke 
the window shutters of the room where the 
safe is kept?" 

"Yes; they climbed over the wall be- 
tween the garden and the court, which 
would not be difficult for any one with a 
little acrobatic skill; it was more difficult to 
get off the shutter without making noise 
enough to awaken either me or my servant 
in the first story, or the housekeeper and 
kitchen girl, who sleep in the front part of 
the second story. But, then, they were 
probably not very pleasantly surprised by 
something like what landscape gardeners 
call a 'ha, ha' — by the strong iron bars 
over the window. They, therefore, turned 
their attention to another window opening 
on the court, the one leading into the back 
room, and there they had better success. 
3 



They removed the shutter, broke a pane of 
glass, and so reached the catch. They 
could then get into this room very easily, 
and had no great difficulty in opening my 
writing-desk, judging by the slight traces 
they have left. When my servant came in 
this morning to make the fire, he found the 
writing-desk standing open, as well as the 
door between these two rooms, and one 
side of the window looking into the court." 

M And there was no indication that your 
nocturnal visitors had made the attempt to 
get from here into the business rooms, and 
from there to the room where the safes are, 
as probably they could have reached it more 
easily by that route than through the bars 
of the window?" 

"No indication. After making their 
coup de main, the thieves withdrew like 
peaceable, sensible people. " 
Did not that surprise you ?" 

"Surprise me? It only surprised me 
that they knew how to choose a night when 
the clerk who generally sleeps there had re- 
ceived permission to stay at home — his wife 
is very sick. And yet I have unbounded 
confidence in the honesty of this man, to 
whom I have to entrust thousands every 
day. It is impossible that he could have 
been concerned in it." 

" There might have been other people em- 
ployed about the building and acquainted 
with the clerk or his family, who could have 
known of it soon enough to mention it indis- 
creetly, so that the fact could be made use 
of. But are you sure that it was intention- 
ally made use of ? I am inclined to believe 
that it was by mere chance that the burglary 
took place in the absence of your clerk." 

"Indeed, and what makes you think so ? 
It seems that the combinations of your wis- 
dom have already led you to a definite suspi- 
cion. Speak, then, without any more diplo- 
matic preliminaries." 

Ferdinand shook his head. 

"To a suspicion? No. I said so only 
because it is an old observation that ' chance' 
has a demoniac nature, and knows how to 
arrange things so that what happens is the 
very thing that just at this day and just at 
this hour ought not to have happened ! I 
have no suspicion; it only came into my 



32 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



head that possibly the American might have 
remembered afterward that he had written 
his name on the paper, and have thought that 
it would endanger the safety of his sojourn 
here, and that possibly he might have recov- 
ered his paper in a true Yankee go-a-head 
manner. But that is foolishness " 

" Ah, you thought that would explain why 
no farther attempt was made to break into 
the other rooms 2 The thieves must have 
been simply driven away by some noise; 
this Herr Bonsart may be a bold traitor and 
revolutionist: he is not a thief !" 

" No; it was folly to think of such a thing. 
You are right. I had seen the improbabil- 
ity before you spoke. Beside, he would 
have supposed that if his name were noticed 
on the paper, and the authorities set on his 
track, it would probably have occurred yes- 
terday, so that would be too late. So ■" 

At this moment, the conversation was in- 
terrupted by a hasty knock, and the police- 
officer stepped into the room again. 

" Excuse me, Herr Schott," he said, 
" there is one thing I neglected. I have 
sent the necessary telegrams, but now it is 
best to advertise the stolen bond in the 
newspapers, as a warning against buying it, 
and, if you choose, to offer a small reward 
for its recovery." 

"It might be well to do so, Herr Groeb- 
ler," answered the banker. "I will write 
you a description of the paper. Unfortu- 
nately, as I had not put it into the safe, it 
was not entered regularly in the books — in 
consequence of my attention being some- 
what distracted — and, therefore, I cannot 
give the number. But there was one pecu- 
liar mark upon it — the name, Philip Bon- 
sart." 

. "Philip Bonsart !" exclaimed the police- 
officer. 

"Philip Bonsart," repeated the banker. 
" The name was written on the edge at the 
back, and my cousin here is firmly convinced 
that it was that gentleman himself who was 
here day before yesterday and sold me the 
bond." 

While the banker was speaking, Herr 
Groebler's eyes glided slowly from him to 
Ferdinand, and it was singular the com- 
plete change that came over his eyes in this 



short journey from the oue to the other. 
Those deep-set eyes had rested on the bank- 
er with a weary and expressionless gaze, like 
that of a sleepy dog; but now, as they turned 
upon Ferdinand, they glowed like the eyes 
of a bird of prey. Herr Groebler's long, 
narrow, yellow face was subject to such tran- 
sitions. To one it said, " You need not be 
disturbed or frightened, whatever reasons 
we may have had for meddling with your af- 
fairs, we have nothing to do with them at 
present; we will attend to you hereafter." 
To another, it said with those glowing eyes, 
" Now we have you fast; now we shall bring 
all your fearful sins to the clear light of day ! " 

But this language of the policeman's eyes 
was entirely without effect on Ferdinand. 
With wrinkled brows, he seemed to be 
studying Herr Groebler's physiognomy. It 
was as if he were observing, with extreme 
anxiety, the effect of the name, Philip Bon- 
sart, on the poHce-commissary. He remain- 
ed quiet in the sofa-corner he had taken, 
leaving his cousin to answer, when Herr 
Groebler exclaimed, in a suppressed voice, 
as though suddenly distressed for want of 
breath: — 

"You believe that this Philip Bonsart is 
here in the city — here ? You believe that ? 
Philip Bonsart?" 

"According to what my cousin says, it 
must have been he himself," answered Jo- 
hann Heinrich. 

"I think," observed Ferdinand, smiling 
slightly, "you are very f oolish, cousin, to 
bring this dangerous man into the game. 
You have only to look at Herr Groebler to 
see that at this moment he is very little con- 
cerned as to where your thousand dollars 
have gone to, but very much as to where he 
can lay his hand on the traitor; the police do 
not take such game every day J" 

"Unfortunately, Herr von Schott," an- 
swered Herr Groebler, "the police are used 
to being on the track of more than one kind 
of game at a time, and they are prepared 
for it I Will you tell me whatever you 
know that may be of service to me in secur- 
ing this dangerous man ?" 

* ' Dangerous ? He is dangerous to you, to 
be sure, since, if he escapes you, he may 
cheat you out of an order or a promotion 1" 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



33 



"lbeg of you," said Herr Groebler, with- 
out noticing this remark, " to tell ine every- 
thing about him that may help us to rind 
him — his appearance, his dress, his state- 
ments about himself— where he came from, 
what had brought him here, and why he 
needed such a large amount of ready money. 
He must, of course, have given a false 
name ? It was day before yesterday that he 
was here. At what hour ?" 

"While speaking, Herr Groebler had taken 
out his large note-book to make memoranda 
cf the answers. 

" It was day before yesterday," said the 
banker, "that he was here, between five 
and six o'clock — nearer six, was it not, 
Ferdinand?" 

"You must know better than I, cousin," 
answered Ferdinand. " You had better give 
your attention, Herr Groebler, to my 
cousin's statements, for, as for me, you 
must know that I had just come from a little 
dinner in honor of a betrothal, and was, 
therefore, in a condition that weakens the 
ability of most people for sharp observation. 
You understand that, Herr Groebler." 

" Your eloquence, at least, was not weak- 
ened," said Johann Heinrich, smiling bit- 
terly. 

"But," said Ferdinand, 4 'the tongue and 
the eyes are quite different things." 

" At six o'clock, then," said Herr Groeb- 
ler, " and what name did he give ? you asked 
his name ?" 

.The banker answered, and gave farther 
details, of all of which the officer made co- 
pious notes. When he put questions on 
points as to which the banker was not quite 
sure, he turned to Ferdinand, who gave, 
without concealment, what information he 
could regarding the special point in ques- 
tion. 

But that was all he did to facilitate the 
work of the police. He did his duty to- 
ward the officer, but kept silence when Herr 
Groebler did not question him. Sitting in 
his sofa corner, observing, with contracted 
brows, the slight signs of excitement which 
the commissary could not quite conceal 
under the cold exterior of his official dig- 
nity, he thought how happy he could make 
this man by telling him even a small part of 



what he know about Philip Bonsart, and 
the object of his visit; how many useless 
efforts, how many journeys, how many ex- 
aminations of landlords, how many long 
watches at depots, how many telegraphic 
despatches he could spare these people, if 
he should speak. Bat he would not speak. 
No, he would not. He would have liked to 
speak, and would have given much if he 
could — if he could have brought sudden 
ruin on the man he hated above everything 
else on earth, and so have made him harm- 
less to himself forever. He did not forbear 
for Elsie's sake. The tenderness, the senti- 
mental self-denial that would have held him 
back from anything that might have made 
Elsie unhappy, was not in him. His love 
for her was too much that of a selfish man 
who desires to win, to conquer, to possess, 
and that of a vain man, to whom it could 
never occur to doubt that he could fully re- 
place the love he might deprive her of. 
No, it was not for Elsie's sake that he for- 
bore, but for his own sake. He would have 
despised himself as a dog, if he could have 
betrayed his rival. In the first moment, 
when Emil Drausfeld made those bitter re- 
velations, then, perhaps, his pain and his 
rage might have driven him to sieze, blind- 
ly, the most effective weapon for destroying 
his fortunate rival. But to-day it was 
otherwise. He had regained his self-con- 
trol, and if not composure of feeling, at 
least enough clearness of mind to make it 
impossible for his passion to drive him to a 
base action. 

And did he not, too, revenge himself on 
Elsie, now when he quietly defended her, 
held over her the shield of his silence ? 

So Philip Bonsart remained unbetrayed 
by him, although he did not hesitate to tell 
the truth when the officer addressed ques- 
tions directly to him, for confirmation of 
his cousin's recollections of the man's ap- 
pearance and dress. When the commis- 
sary had withdrawn with hasty steps, he 
left his cousin and went out to the wall of 
the old city fortifications, now planted with 
lindens, and used as a promenade, though 
it was but little frequented. There he 
could be alone with his thoughts, and had 
leisure to reflect on the destiny that awaited 



34 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



Elsie with such a man, pursued here as a 
criminal, and for whom, on the other side 
of the ocean, there would be abundant 
adventure and shifting fates; it could not 
be otherwise with such a character as Philip 
Bonsart's must be, having a magnetic at- 
traction toward adventure, and unfitted for 
a quiet, peaceful life, such as a woman 
craves. But perhaps it was her choice; 
perhaps her longings were all for a new 
world, full of change and adventure. Per- 
haps if all that could await her, her entire 
future could have been shown to her in a 
magic glass, even this might not have fright- 
ened her from following the man she had 
chosen. It was too late now to separate them ! 

But not too late to watch over her. The 
more Ferdinand thought of her and her 
future, the more anxious did he grow about 
her fate, and uneasy about the conse- 
quences, for her as well as for Bonsart, of 
the fact of his presence in the neighbor- 
hood being known to the police. Here, in 
the city, indeed, they might seek him in 
vain; he had gone; but would not Herr 
Groebler at once extend his search to 
Philip's home, to Asthof, and might not 
that sly and shrewd detective succeed in 
laying hands upon him there ? Was it not 
necessary to send him a warning ? At first 
he shrank, in his wrath, from doing so much 
for his rival. But gradually he grew to re- 
gard it as a duty toward Elsie. He felt that 
he should despise himself if, from base 
jealousy, he should neglect it. The blow 
would be too cruel, it would drive her 
nature of " flame" to the verge of insanity, 
if her lover were to be snatched from her at 
the very moment of their union, to be 
thrown into a dungeon ! It would not be 
necessary that he should personally warn 
Philip; he could take Emil Drausfeld into 
his confidence, and give the warning 
through him. This he resolved to do. 

He looked Emil up, and told him every- 
tliing that had occurred. 

Emil was frightened. " This Groebler is 
a dangerous bloodhound, and we can rest 
assured that he will be in Asthof long be- 
fore evening ! I must send Philip Bonsart 
a warning to-day; to-morrow it may be too 
late. But how?" 



" Best perhaps through Elsie. She must 
have found a way of keeping up communi- 
cation with him." 

" Elsie has gone," answered Emil. Yes- 
terday morning she started, as she told 
them at home, to visit a friend in B., two 
hours's journey from Asthof. Philip is 
to go there for her and bring her to Ast- 
hof." 

" Gone ! Then she has really gone to be 
married to Mm !" 

" Did you doubt her resolution ?" 

Ferdinand was silent a while, and then 
said, shrugging his shoulders : 

"You are my witness that I have done 
what I could. I have placed the matter in 
your hands. It is for you to devise means 
for warding off the misfortune from these 
people !" 

Emil stood thinking. " The safest way," 
he said, at length, " is for me to go as soon 
a? possible to Asthof. It is a long way. If 
I go at once, I shall be there sooner than 
Herr Groebler." 

l< "Without doubt," said Ferdinand, who 
felt rebuked at Emil's zeal. 

Emil began to make his preparations 
hastily; Ferdinand gave him his hand, 
turned, and went away in silence. 

When he was alone in his room, the re- 
action came in full force — the reaction that, 
with a character like his, must always fol- 
low an impulse to self-sacrifice, to conquest 
of its own passions. He reproached him- 
self for his foolish generosity; he con- 
demned Elsie's reckless, mad action; he 
cursed this Philip Bonsart, and still more 
himself, with his unhappy love for this girl, 
whom he called unworthy of it, and yet 
whom he could not tear from his heart. 
He was overcome by a sorrow and despera- 
tion that seemed to him remediless; he told 
himself that he should never be able to 
conquer it, that it would paralyze all his 
powers, would poison the sweets of life, 
and make him forever wretched. Besting 
his head upon his hand, he said to himself, 
with a bitter smile, " You are now one of 
those rare psychological phenomena, an un- 
fortunate in love; and all that remains for 
you to do is to study the pathology of the 
disease." 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



After thinking and dreaming for a long 
time, he raised himself. 

" No," he said, " to make an utter failure 
on account of such a woman, to die of a 
broken heart, that is not the fate the gods 
have reserved for you. For that you are 
still too good, too strong, too decided, too 
truly fire ! I will go away from here, away 
from the atmosphere of this city, where the 
enchantment first came upon me. I will go 
to Berlin, and urge them to give me an 
early examination. Then I shall be obliged 
to busy myself with other things, and such 
a necessity is the best means for driving 
away regret. And I will see and hear noth- 
ing more of the people here; I will not hear 
her name; I should have to go, after a few 
days, to make Father Melroth a visit of con- 
dolence, when he has found out and it has 
got abroad that his daughter has escaped 
with an adventurer. None of that ! I will 
pack up and be away. Let them wonder, 
the Melroths, Alexander, Emil Drausfeld, 
all of them, at my sudden , disappearance; 
the discussions I should have with Alexan- 
der, when he hears of the affair, would 
alone be enough to drive me away. I will 
take leave only of my good cousin, Johann 
Heinrich; he can bid the others good-bye 
for me." 

In his hasty way, he began at once to 
carry out his decision. He sent for his 
servant and ordered all his bills paid, packed 
up his effects, went to his cousin, the banker, 
on whom he was dependent, to give him 
his reasons for taking the step, explaining 
it by his desire to get on in his profession; 
and in the evening he was in the night- train 
for Berlin. 

Berlin ! The great city with all its fever- 
ish life took him up and roared, and whirl- 
ed, and thundered around him, and yet he 
was more alone than in quiet H. He 
dreamed of Elsie and devoted himself as 
much as he could to his studies, without 
hearing a word from the old provincial 
town. The first news from there, which 
came after a long delay, was a short business 
letter from the banker, to whom he had sent 
notice of his arrival and his address in Ber- 
lin. Johann Heinrich wrote in a postscript 
that Herr Groebler had succeeded in catch- 



35 

ing the two suspected tramps, that the bond 
had been found in their possession, and that 
they would be tried at the next assizes. 
Alexander, he added, wished to be remem- 
bered; he had been promoted and trans- 
ferred, and on that account would hasten his 
marriage. That was all the news in Johann 
Heinrich's letter. 

A week afterward, a letter came from 
Alexander. He informed Fe -dinandof his 
promotion, and his wedding which was to 
take place the next week, and to which he 
begged Ferdinand to come. This letter, 
too, had a postscript. It ran: — "Poor Emil 
Drausfeld! As his written work for his 
second examination was found wanting, and 
he is now spoiled for the career of a forester 
proper, his relatives have procured him a 
miserable place as under-forester in an out- 
of-the-way place, and are now urging him to 
go there, to devote himself to his flute and 
his disappointment !" 

Singularly enough, the letter contained 
not a word about Elsie ! 

Ferdinand thought over and over about 
this remarkable silence, and con Id find no 
explanation of it; when he wrote to his 
cousin, declining the invitation, he could 
not refrain from adding, "And the house of 
Melroth ? You did not tell me a syllable, 
either of the father or of Elsie. " 

About ten days afterward, Ferdinand re- 
ceived a printed notice of his cousin's mar- 
riage. With the brevity of a bridegroom 
too much occupied to write letters, Alex- 
ander had added the words: " We are going 
to the Rhine, for our wedding journey. 
Father Melroth is in excellent health, and 
sends his regards to you. Elsie ? Do not 
ask after her. The sooner you get her out 
of your mind, the better. Yours, 

Alexander. " 

Ferdinand stared gloomily at these lines 
for a long time, as if he must succeed in 
reading from them what Elsie had passed 
through since he saw her. At last he 
crushed the paper and threw it into the 
stove, saying — 

"Well, it is done, she is on the other side 
the ocean, and lost forever! May her 
memory perish as this paper perishes in the 
flames." 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



3G 

The fire in the little stove devoured the 
slip of paper, but the fiercer fire within him 
could not fulfil his wish and destroy for 
him the memory of Elsie. 



CHAPTER, VII. 

FOKGOTTEN. 

The events just related are now stories ot 
long-vanished days. Many years have 
passed since then, seventeen, perhaps eigh- 
teen. Men since then have died, friends 
have separated, vows have been broken, al- 
liances have been made between people who 
then had never seen each other, and have 
again been dissolved; ambitious men have 
grown old and tame, modest and quiet men 
have come into places where they assert 
themselves haughtily and imperiously. If 
we should go again into our old city, we 
should find it a little older and grayer; there 
would seem to be more fissures in the an- 
cient houses, greater quiet in the streets; if 
we should ask after our old acquaintances 
there, we should find that many had been 
sleeping for years under the green turf, the 
dress that nature weaves for us all at last, 
and from which no changes in the fashions, 
whatever other wonders they can do, can 
avail to save us. If we should ask after the 
banker Johann Heinrich Schott, we should 
hear: — He died a few years ago, quite sud- 
denly, of an apoplectic stroke, after suffer- 
ing for a long time from a liver-complaint, 
which made him so cross in his last years, 
that he did not seem • to be the same man. 
And father Melroth ? He, also, died several 
years ago — how many — who knows now? 
Of what ? That, too, is forgotten. And his 
daughters ? Long, long gone from this re- 
gion. One, the oldest, married an officer, a 
Captain Schott; directly after they were mar- 
ried, they went east, to Prussia or JPomera- 
nia, " back there in the geography;" there 
he, too, is said to have died, Captain Schott, 



soon after his marriage — or perhaps a year 
after — or two, it is not known precisely. 
Nothing more has been heard from them. 
Such people come, and we see them and as- 
sociate with them; they take their place 
among us, a large or a small one, as the case 
may be, and then their business calls them 
to another place, and they move out, and 
the stream of life fills up the gap they left, 
and they are lost sight of, forgotten ! 

These are the answers we should receive, 
should we return to that old city where the 
preceding events of our story took place, 
and inquire for those concerned in them. 
"We must look among quite different scenes 
for those in whom we are specially inter- 
ested. 

The first is a man, now in his full vigor, 
whom we find taking a tedious journey on a 
miserable day, in a wild, desolate, forsaken 
region. The great, boundless plain, sprink- 
led with sand-dunes, looking like dams half- 
built and then abandoned, was covered with 
a light, wet snow, which balled together 
under the feet, and here and there stood in 
little watery pools in slight depressions of 
the ground, but seemed too indolent to 
yield at once to the warmth of the oncoming 
thaw. What did it matter though the snow 
should remain a week longer in this deso- 
late, uninhabited place ? The little, round- 
ish heaps of turf scattered here and there 
through the hollows and along narrow 
ditches, in which the sunken ice was cover- 
ed with brownish-yellow water, did not 
trouble themselves as to whether the snow 
staid on their round heads or not. A heavy 
gray fog extended over the whole region, 
shutting in the otherwise wide prospect, 
and giving only here and there a shimmer- 
ing view of the outlines of the dark pine- 
woods, which lay to the right and left. 
Two men were passing through this desert 
on horseback. One was in the uniform of a 
forester, over which he wore an old dark- 
gray cloak; he was seated on a bony horse, 
with extended neck, drooping head, and 
weary eyes. With him, on an animal not 
much better, was a man apparently from a 
very different sphere of life; he wore a 
closely-buttoned, heavy gray overcoat, and 
fine boots, reaching to the knee. He was 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



37 



tall, and Iris face had that type of distinc- 
tion given by clear and rather sharply-cut 
features, and a head rather oval than round; 
the chin, which was a little too strongly de- 
veloped, was hidden in a long, light beard; 
had it not been, one would have been struck 
with the expression of energy in it, espe- 
cially in connection with the eyes, which, 
though half-closed, had a sharp and aggres- 
sive expression. It might have been the 
wearisome expanse of snow around that 
kept the eyes half-closed; he opened them 
wide only now and then, when he raised his 
eyeglass to look at something in the dis- 
tance. He sat in the saddle like a prac- 
ticed rider, and his bearing had something 
of a military air. This was Ferdinand von 
Schott. After both had been silent for 
some time, he resumed the conversation. 

"But over there, at the right, I see some- 
thing glimmering that looks like a church 
tower," he said, in a remarkably sonorous 
and pleasant voice; "there, at the dark 
edge of those woods." 

"You are right," answered the forester. 
"It is the church-tower of Ehleru. We 
have now a league and a half to ride." 
, "A league and a half yet ! And I think 
we have already come three leagues. Three 
leagues, you said, we had to ride?" 

"Three leagues; and here, at the point 
where the church-tower of Ehleru becomes 
visible, we have passed over one-half the 
distance." 

"It is a fearful place, and I am afraid it 
doesn't look much better when this horrible 
winding-sheet of snow is off." 

"Not much, but a little," said the for- 
ester. "Then you can at least see the 
sandy roads which cross it, and now and 
then a living creature, to afford some little 
diversion; you can hear the plovers cry, 
and see the storks and herons, and now and 
then a fox, sneaking among the sand-heaps. 
There are but few rabbits; they cannot find 
the right kind of food; and the partridges 
only come here in harvest, when they are 
scared away from the fields. But now, at 
this season, no living creature could thrive 
here, except the hooded crow, like that just 
crossing our path on beyond there, unless 
it were brought from Siberia and domesti- 



cated here. A little more to the left, sir; 
our road leads to the dark woods at the left 
there." 

" Our road?" said Ferdinand, shrugging 
his shoulders. "I'll be hanged if I can 
see any trace of a road or any track there !" 

"It is not necessary," answered the for- 
ester. " The roads run over the heath as if 
they had their own way entirely, and trou- 
bled themselves but very little about men. 
What does this desolate heath know or care 
about men, and how can these wild paths 
know where people want to go ? They run 
on, now to the right, and now to the left, 
like a forsaken child or a wandering dog; 
often, too, only until they get tired, and 
then they stop suddenly before a sand-hill 
or a snow-pond, and that is the end of it!" 

"What a place! And to be exiled to 
such a world forever !" said Ferdinand to 
himself; half-aloud. 

The forester drew his cloak closer around 
him, then began a quick motion with his 
feet in the stirrups, and then drew out a 
short pipe, with a wooden bowl, which he 
filled and lighted, the quiet pace of his 
horse allowing him to use his hands freely. 

"If one's feet did not get so cold in the 
stirrups, we could get along very well," he 
said. "A short, quick trot would be too 
hazardous; Heaven only knows into what 
hole under the snow the nags might step, 
and if we should have an accident I 
shouldn't like to meet that postmaster 
again; he is as obstinate and hard-bitted as 
if he had trotted before his mail-wagon 
himself for the last dozen years; it's a great 
wonder that you prevailed on him to lend 
us these two old nags." 

" That was, indeed, a good-natured thing 
for him to do. He would certainly not 
have lent us the horses if it had not been 
for giving you an opportunity to carry your 
good news to ihe forester at Vellinghaus. 
Does he know him, this Herr Drausfeld ?" 

"I do not know; he may know him, and 
he may not. He will trouble himself very 
little as to whether the forester, Drausfeld, 
receives the news to-day or a year from 
now; he did it entirely from love of your 
bright thalers, you may be sure !" 

"But you know him, Herr Drausfeld?" 



C3 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



"I know him, and so I know what it 
means to him — such a paper as I have in my 
pocket for him. Fifty thalers increase of 
salary — that is all the world to people in 
such circumstances. For the husband and 
wife and the bevy of children, who have 
heretofore had to live on four hundred and 
fifty thalers, together with their rent, the 
use of a garden and meadow, an 1 six cords 
of fire- wood — it is all the world." 

' ' Four hundred and fifty thalers in this 
horrible, desolate wilderness?" 

" Do you think it so very little ?" said the 
forester, smiling. " Well, the science that 
one of us has to bring to such work, and 
the amount to be done, are very well paid 
for with four hundred and fifty thalers. 
But I can tell you, sir, the management and 
skill necessary to keep house with such a 
sum and not run behind — four hundred and 
fifty thalers will not pay for that ! But 
what would you have ? Drausf eld was 
thankful enough to get the place. He had 
not many claims on a position, and, poor as 
this was, there were applications from 
others as well qualified as Drausfeld. In 
any other place he could hardly have suc- 
ceeded. If his forest had not been so far 
out of the world, he could hardly have kept 
away the wood thieves; and where there are 
poachers, a flute blower, piping half the 
night to the moon, would hardly be the 
right kind of an officer. But I will say 
nothing against him, although he is no 
more fit for a forester than a sheep is for a 
snipe-catcher, and the Lord only knows by 
what cousinly influence he obtained the 
place; but he is a kind-hearted and cour- 
teous man, who wishes well to every one. 
Beside, the poor fellow cannot hold out 
much longer; whether it is from blowing 
the flute too much, or what, his lungs are 
affected, and when he begins coughing, it is 
enough to scare one away. Well, you must 
know him well, or you would not have been 
so determined to go to him, and have per- 
sisted, 'in spite of this wretched weather, 
until our postmaster brought out his old 
nags." 

"Which I should not have succeeded in," 
said Ferdinand, evasively, "if you had not 
happened to come along with an errand to 



the forester at Yellinghaus. The close- 
fisted fellow," he added, laughing, " has in 
you a security that I will not run away with 
this jewel of his stables." 

The forester made no reply. He may 
have thought his companion a little to© re- 
ticent and mysterious about the reasons that 
led him on such a day through this snowy 
wilderness to the forester of Vellinghaus. 
He, therefore, kept silence. Why should he 
allow himself to be drawn out about his 
flute-playing colleague by a man perhaps 
related to him? It was well known that 
Drausfeld was from a good and once wealthy 
family, and if nothing had even been said 
of it, it would have been evident from his 
fine and gentle manner, notwithstanding his 
negligent appearance, and the unbrushed 
clothes that hung around his emaciated 
form. 

The forester had smoked out his pipe; he 
put it away, and began again to work his 
feet in the stirrups, saying: — 

" How thick the fog is growing I It is 
well I saw the tower of Ehleru, and the 
corner of the forest to which we must ride; 
as the air is now, we might easily lose our 
way." 

"Like the man, or woman, rather," said 
Ferdinand, looking down beside him at the 
snow, "who left these tracks. They run 
along in a wild and uncertain way across 
our path." 

"That is true," answered the forester, 
checking his horse, and observing, closely, 
the deep tracks in the snow. * ' Some wo- 
man must have lost her way, for these 
tracks were evidently made by a woman's 
shoe, a fine shoe, too; notice the narrow 
sole and the small, high heel. Our peasant 
women do not wear such. " 

" Singular," said Ferdinand. " How can 
a lady have been lost here ? - It is incredi- 
ble !" 

"It must have been yesterday," con- 
tinued the forester. " There is a little 
water in all the tracks." He raised himself 
in the stirrups in order to see the directiou 
of the steps as far as possible. 

" They come from the left," he said", 
"from the direction of the Vellinghaus 
forest. Here, not far from where we are, 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



39 



she must have lost the direction, perhaps, 
to Stavorn, the station from winch we came. 
From here she kept more to the right. 
God grant she got to Ehleru; otherwise it 
may have gone hard with her." 

Ferdinand, who had rode a little distance 
in the direction of the steps and observed 
them carefully, said: — 

"It is, indeed, not only the foot, but the 
gait of a lady; of one, at least, whose walk 
has been trained. How regularly the toes 
are turned outward! But here and there 
the tracks are noticeably wider, the foot has 
been planted uncertainly and raised again; 
the wanderer must have been very weary." 

"It is very strange," said the forester; 
"if I had not seen it with my own eyes, I 
could not have believed it. In this wilder- 
ness!" 

"In truth," said Ferdinand, thought- 
fully, "it is very strange, and there is 
something very uncanny about the foot- 
steps here in this desert of fog and snow. 
I should not be surprised if we should pre- 
sently meet a pair of bewitched little boots, 
condemned for their past sins to wander 
forever on this desolate heath !" 

" Then they would have each other for 
company," answered the forester, smiling; 
"but the person that left these tracks was 
entirely alone, without a companion, guide, 
or protector." 

They rode on, and as from time to time 
the footsteps again became visible in wide 
curves, the forester said at last: — 

"I see they come from the forester's 
lodge at Vellinghaus, and it could have 
been no one else than the forester's wife 
wandering here on the heath — Frau Draus- 
feld. She is the only person for leagues 
around here who could wear such shoes. 
Yes, yes, it must have been she. God help 
us ! The poor woman must be crazy to run 
about so in the snow !" 

Ferdinand shook his head. "Crazy? 
One might well be after being exiled here 
for years. And what if her husband had 
treated her badly, which even the best-na- 
tured one might come to in such circum- 
stances " 

"He? Oh, no; he could not treat any 
one badly; and, as far as I know, he has 



never had any trouble with his wife, though 
they are badly enough suited to each other. 
When he had been forester here for a year, 
he must have found that without a wife, 
and all alone with his flute-playing, it was 
absolutely unendurable, and then, they say, 
he advertised in the newspaper for a wife, 
and so he happened to get a former lady's- 
maid in a noble family; people thought she 
would have a hard time of it in the quiet 
lodge, and would have to play the terma- 
gant, if only for diversion. But no; the 
little woman has held herself bravely, and 
has brought up their large family well and 
in the fear of God — all except the oldest 
boy, who is a good-for-nothing, and is said 
to have run away from his parents two or 
three times already." 

Ferdinand had listened in silence, and 
the conversation was now dropped. The 
horses ploded along through the wet snow, 
till at length they came to a broad, straight 
forest road, through a melancholy, unmov- 
ing fir wood, which seemed to stretch out 
endlessly before them. The foot-tracks 
appeared again beside it; after a while they 
were doubled, one row coming into the road 
from under the fir trees, and leading toward 
the forester's lodge. 

" She got back to the house safely," said 
the forester, "here, straight through the 
forest. The tracks run here to the house. 
We shall soon reach it." 

They reached it in about ten minutes. It 
lay to the right from the road; a little gar- 
den enclosed by a paling lay in front of it; 
some pines stretched their heavy branches 
over the roof; they had caught and held the 
snow on their broader needles better than 
had the firs in the wood. In front of the 
little windows on the gable-side of the 
house stood a pair of leafless linden trees, 
their branches twined together above as a 
protection against the summer-sun. Be- 
hind the house, and at the side of the little 
stable, lay quite a large garden, and on the 
other side an orchard, with crooked, moss- 
covered fruit trees. No living creature was 
visible. 

When the riders had dismounted and 
tied their horses to the garden paling, the 
upper part of a door in the centre of the 



40 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



house was opened, and a boy looked out. 
His long, blonde hair hung over his pro- 
jecting forehead in tangled locks, and his 
eyes surveyed the strangers with a sullen 
and hostile expression. 

" Good day, my boy," cried the forester, 
stamping with his benumbed feet on the 
ground; "how goes it? Is your father at 
home?" 

The boy did not answer. His looks grew 
more hostile, but he opened the lower part 
of the door, and the men stepped in. They 
entered a clean and bright-looking kitchen, 
where a turf fire was burning on the hearth; 
a number of children were sitting around 
on low straw chairs and stools. They were 
remarkably quiet, and a half -grown girl, 
with a baby on her lap, showed by her red- 
dened eyes that their strange quiet had 
some tragic cause. 

"Where is your father ?" asked the for- 
ester again of the boy. 

The boy remained silent. The girl an- 
swered for him. 

" Father," she said, and fell into such a 
violent fit of sobbing that the words she 
added could scarcely be understood, but 
they sounded like " Father is dead." 

The boy stood and stared at the strangers 
as if to observe the effect of the words, and 
ready to fall into a passion if it should not 
be -what he expected. 

4 ' What ? Dead ?" exclaimed the forester. 

"Dead?" repeated Ferdinand, whose 
color changed visibly. 

" There is mother," said the child. 

A door was opened at the right — a glass 
door, with a curtain on the other side — 
and situated at the head of six steps; it 
was evidently the entrance to an upper 
room. 

A thin little woman, in disorderly attire, 
came out and descended the stairs. Her 
features, which must have been originally 
pretty, were disfigured by the unmistakable 
impress of bitter sorrow, though her eyes 
were dry and firm as she looked at the 
strangers. 

" What do I hear, Fran Drausfeld?" said 
the forester, with emotion, stepping toward 
her. " Your husband is dead ?" 

"He died yesterday — last night; between 



eleven and twelve. You are the first man I 
have seen since. He is dead, dead ! " 

She staggered and fell into the straw 
chair near her, as if crushed by the terrible 
fact. 

' 1 But, Heavens ! how did that happen so 
suddenly, so unexpectedly?" 

" Unexpectedly ? I knew very well that 
it would soon be over with him. I thought 
in the spring, when the trees leave out and 
the young grass springs up, then it must 
end ! Bat I did not think it would end so 
soon. Yesterday, at noon, he had a dread- 
ful hemorrhage, and there was no one — no 
one to help him. I ran out, leaving the 
children with him, out toward Stavorn for 
help, for a physician. I ran a long way 
through the snow. But the fog was so 
thick on the heath I lost my way; I did not 
know where I was. I would gladly have 
lain down in the snow and died there !" 

She said no more, but sat with her hands 
pressed convulsively together, and stared 
with her tearless eyes at the floor. 

"Then they were really your footsteps 
that we saw," observed the forester, after a 
pause, during which Ferdinand had been 
looking at the poor woman, and trying to 
imagine the despair of that lonely wander- 
ing through the fog and snow; it was heart- 
rending. 

"And how did you get home again?" 
asked the forester. 

" God knows," she answered, in a lifeless 
voice; "at the last I thought only of getting 
home before nightfall; and just at dark I 
got home. It was like a dream !" 

"And so you did not have the slightest 
assistance, and he died in the night ?" 

"He died," she answered, with a deep 
sigh. " He lies up there, in the alcove off 
the upper room. If you would like to see 
him, you can go up there." 

The forester threw a glance at the door, a 
glance as of doubt and reluctance. Then 
he said: 

" And no one knows that you are here in 
this deserted place, cut oif from all the 
world, alone with your dead?" 

" No one on earth. What is to be done, 
I do not know." 

The forester shook his head. He seemed 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



41 



to have need of time to comprehend such a 
situation and make it clear to himself. 

" Take courage, Frau Drausfeld," he said, 
slowly and half-aloud, as if still deep in 
thought; " I will ride at once to Ehleru and 
arrange for everything needful. The neigh- 
boring foresters shall be notified, and every- 
thing shall be done for you that it is possi- 
ble to do. 

' 4 If I had only been sent here a few days 
sooner — but it always takes such a fearful 
long time for the gentlemen to get all the 
writing done. See, there, what I came to 
bring your husband — an increase in his 
salary of fifty thalers a year !" 

She took the official letter which he drew 
out and handed to her, and dropped it 
apathetically into her lap. 

Her son was standing by her, leaning with 
his shoulder on the back of her chair. He 
took up the letter, opened it, and read it 
through slowly, without saying a word. 
Then he laid it as quietly in her lap again. 

" It comes too late, too late!" she said, 
with an expression of complete despair. 

Complete, utter despair was the expres- 
sion of her entire appearance. She showed 
no violent grief; she did not weep or sob; 
as she sat there with her look of fixed and 
stony grief, it was evident that there would 
be no outbreak of stormy despair; she was 
completely broken, perhaps even dulled in 
every feeling, broken in every power, by 
the cares and sorrows of past days, months, 
and years. 

"It is too late!" she repeated, lifelessly. 
And then, after a pause, she said, "Will 
you go up, Herr Gellhorn ? He lies there 
so still, and peaceful, and beautiful ! His 
face looks as if something great and holy 
had come to him — something great and 
holy!" 

At these words of the mother, Ferdinand 
was struck with the appearance of the boy 
at her side. While his face had previously 
worn an expression of wrathful defiance, he 
seemed to be strangely and completely over- 
come by what his mother said of something 
great and holy that had left its imprint on 
the still features of his dead father; he 
broke out in a terrible fit of sobbing, and 
threw himself on the stairs that led to the 



upper room, pressing his forehead upon one 
of the higher steps, and giving himself up 
to a passion of sorrow. 

Ferdinand looked at him with deep emo- 
tion. The forester, Gellhorn, might have 
thought', in his powerlessness to be of any 
assistance, that it would perhaps comfort 
the wife a little if he should do as she asked 
and go to the upper room ; he might, too, 
have thought it a kind of duty toward his 
departed colleague to look for the last time 
upon his rigid features. So he went lightly 
up the steps, past the boy, and disappeared 
behind the glass door. 

Ferdinand shrank from following him. ■ 
Why should he expose himself to the shock 
of seeing again, under such circumstances- 
the man he had known, young, fresh, hope- 
ful, in that other, happier life so long ago ? 

Frau Drausfeld looked into his face with 
a questioning glance. 

"Your look," he said, "asks who I am 
and why I have come. My name is Fer- 
dinand von Schott, and I was a friend of 
your husband's youth. Has he never men- 
tioned my name to you ?" 

"I think he has," she answered; "I 
think so, for the name sounds familiar." 

"Well," he continued, "I came to see 
him again and talk with him of old times. 
But not for that alone. In those times he 
was the confidant of two people, whom a 
strange fate threw together and then tore 
apart again; they were thrown so far from 
each other that the only connecting link be- 
tween them was your husband. These per- 
sons were a lady of the highest rank, and a 
man who went to seek his fortune across the 
ocean. Both wrote letters to him, to Emil 
Drausfeld; he communicated with both, 
telling as much as it was necessary for each 
to know of the other, or as much as each 
desired the other to know. I have come to 
obtain these letters from your husband. I 
have a right to see them, to receive them. 
For, to tell you plainly, my whole future 
depends on the contents of those letters, 
My fortune depends on it, and through 
that my whole future life. The oral expla- 
nations I hoped to receive from your hus- 
band are now no longer possible. But per- 
haps I can obtain the letters. You must 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



know where your husband kept his cor- 
respondence. Will you be kind enough to 
oiiow me his letters ?" 

The woman had raised her eyes to him 
and listened with a kind of absent attention. 
She seemed to try to collect her thoughts 
before she answered; then she passed her 
hand across her forehead, and said: 

"I know very little of what you are 
speaking of. Letter? Yes, he received 
some letters, but not many of them, and it 
was years ago. Sometimes he did not re- 
ceive one for years. Sometimes they came 
from America — from an old friend, he said. 
But the last one came, perhaps four or five 
years ago. I do not know whether he 
kept them. They may be in his writing- 
desk." 

"And if they are, will you give them to 
me?" asked Ferdinand, eagerly. "I am 
not a rich man, but you may be sure that I 
will not forget you, if you give me those 
letters." 

"As you have come after them at this sea- 
son and in such weather," said the woman, 
thoughtfully, " they must be of great value 
to you. But that is no reason that I should 
refuse you. No one will suffer injustice or 
sorrow by my giving them to you, sir?" 

" No injustice will be done to anyone; 
that I can swear to you ! " 

"Then," she answered, "you can look 
for them yourself, sir; there is my hus- 
band's room; I will take you into it." 

"Let me, mother, I will do it," said the 
oldest boy, who was still lying on the steps, 
bat who seemed to have gradually forgotten 
his grief while Ferdinand was speaking, and 
at the last had kept his dark and still tear- 
ful eyes fixed upon the stranger's face. He 
now sprang up and led the way across the 
kitchen to a door on the other side, which 
he opened for Ferdinand. 

The room into which it led was not large, 
but was comparatively pleasant, being light- 
ed by windows on two sides. At the right 
was a deal writing-desk, painted brown, and 
provided with compartments and drawers; 
it was covered with a confused mass of offi- 
cial and other papers. Some hunting im 
plements were hanging on the wall at the 
farther side, and the round table in the cen- 



tre was covered with books and sheets of 
music. The flute was leaning in one corner 
of the window. 

"Had the unfortunate man been allowed 
to adopt the life to which his talents and 
his tastes impelled him," thought Ferdi- 
nand, as he looked around, "what a com- 
fortable and even happy existence he might 
have secured by his talents ! But no; those 
who attempted to provide for his future, 
compelled him to adopt a ' solid' calling, 
only to fail more miserably than he could 
possibly have done in the practice of his 
art. And how miserably !" 

He sat down at the writing-desk, and be- 
gan to search it. The drawers were all un- 
locked; and, in truth, they contained very 
little that would have been worth lock- 
ing up. 

There were old letters there, but not the 
ones that Ferdinand was seeking; and scat- 
tered through the drawers were articles 
hardly worth keeping, old pocket-books, 
knives with broken blades, broken pipes, 
single dominos, and a pair of old miniatures 
of Emil's parents, in frames whose gilding 
had long been worn down to the copper; 
locks of hair carefully rolled in paper, dried 
flowers, bronze medals won by God knows 
what forgotten relatives in what forgotten 
campaigns — the drawers were filled with 
this little bric-d-b?*ac, which it is so foolish 
to keep, unless one has, like Emil Draus- 
feld, a sensitive heart to connect with them 
remembrances inseperable from the out- 
ward tokens. 

In the middle of the writing-desk was a 
small door which was locked. Ferdinand 
looked around for his guide to ask him for 
the key. But the boy was gone, Ferdinand 
stepped back into the kitchen to ask Frau 
Drausfeld for it. She was still standing by 
the hearth, talking with the forester Gell- 
horn, who had returned to the kitchen. 
When Ferdinand asked for the key, the boy 
was just coming down the stairs from the 
upper room, and he answered for his mo- 
ther: 

" Here are the keys !" 
"You have them, Carl?" asked his mo- 
ther, as if surprised. 
"I brought them from my father's 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



43 



pocket," answered Carl; " for I thought the 
gentleman would want them." 

It was an attention that Ferdinand would 
not have expected from the boy, after what 
he had seen of him. The boy handed to 
his mother a ring, with three keys on it. 
She gave them to Ferdinand, but went with 
him into the room, to assist in the rest of 
the search. Carl, in the meantime, had dis- 
appeared, having passed up a steep, narrow 
staircase at the side of the fireplace, leading 
probably to the attic. 

Ferdinand opened the little door in the 
writing-desk with one of the keys. It was 
filled with papers: Emil's appointment, 
orders from his superiors, a few letters from 
his relatives, his wife's certificate of bap- 
tism and recommendations from employers, 
and an open, lidless box, containing a small 
sum of money — the entire amount of prop- 
erty left by Emil Drausfeld. 

"There is nothing here," said Ferdinand, 
breathing heavily and greatly excited; " no 
trace of what I came for." 

" Then I cannot help you," answered the 
woman, apathetically. She was standing 
by him, but her thoughts seemed to be far 
away from what he was doing. 

"But the letters must be in existence," 
exclaimed Ferdinand, in feverish excite- 
ment; "they must be; your husband has 
certainly not destroyed them. Perhaps 
there is some other place where he may 
have concealed them — some closet, or bu- 
reau, or trunk ?" 

" There is a closet up there in the alcove," 
she said, " at the foot of the bed. He 
kept there the books he used to read him- 
self to sleep with evenings. Whether he 
put the letters you are looking for in there, 
too, I do not know. We can go and see." 

She went in advance, and Ferdinand, his 
spirits a little revived by this renewed hope, 
followed her across the kitchen, up the 
steps, to the upper room, which served as 
the family sitting-room — a room whose 
scanty and cheap furniture was even now in 
miserable disorder — and into the alcove, the 
double glass door of which stood wide 
open. 

Ferdinand threw a glance of awe at the 
bed, on which lay the corpse of the friend 



of his youth, who had come so near to him 
in a great crisis and misfortune of his life; 
he was thankful that the face was covered, 
that he was spared the pain of looking into 
the rigid features of that friend whose days 
had ended so sadly in this poverty-struck 
dwelling, in the midst of this forlorn and 
deserted waste. 

Emil's widow, who had taken the keys, 
opened the closet which was made in the 
wall of the alcove at the foot of the bed. 
Ferdinand busied himself with the contents, 
consisting of books, memoranda, fragments 
of an herbarium, old almanacs, a pair of 
old silver candlesticks, the relics of better 
days, and a beautiful cut-glass drinking-cup, 
with a broken standard; the contents of 
the closet were very much like those of the 
writing-desk, and, unfortunately, it was 
quite as empty of what Ferdinand sought. 

"You do not find what you are looking 
for?" asked Frau Drausfeld, as Ferdinand 
turned away, with a deep sigh. 

"No," he said, in a tone of such com- 
plete discouragement and despair, that the 
woman, notwithstanding her apathy, looked 
at him with a puzzled air, and said : 

' ' And these letters are of such extraor- 
dinary value for you ?" 

• ' Of the very greatest, as I told you. 
Everything depends on them for me — every- 
thing on my finding them !" 

She shook her head. 

" I pity you from the bottom of my heart. 
But I cannot help you any more. If the 
letters are not in the writing-desk and not 
in the closet, then my husband must have 
destroyed them. " 
| "That must be the case, and it is very 
| unfortunate for me that it is so. But, if 
you should find the letters, some of which 
are from America, and are signed Philip 
Bonsart, and others from places in Ger- 
many, and probably have no signature, but 
are in a lady's handwriting — if you should 
find them, send them to me a.t once; I will 
give you what you ask for them; I will do 
anything I can for you, if you will get me 
those letters; they would perhaps enable 
me to give a more fortunate turn to your 

fate, and that of your children " 

"My God!" interrupted the widow, "if 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



those letters are of such extreme importance 
to you, it is truly a misfortune that they are 
lost. He certainly could not have dreamed 
of such a thing, and must have burned 
them; for otherwise they would be here or 
in his writing-desk. I have not the slight- 
est hope of finding them " 

"But if you should find them, here, 
take my address; send the letters to this 
address, without delay!" 

Frau Drausfeld took, with a nod, the 
card Ferdinand handed her, after he had 
added a few words with a pencil. 

They then returned to the kitchen. The 
forester was anxious to go home at once : it 
was time, for they must ride by way of 
Ehleru, from whence he was to send the 
necessary assistance. Frau Drausfeld in- 
sisted on placing on the table such refresh- 
ments as she could offer— bread, butter, 
and cheese. Ferdinand would not allow 
her to trouble herself to prepare anything 
more; he contented himself with the old 
rye-brandy which she brought, though it 
was with reluctance that he took the unac- 
customed drink which the forester urged 
upon him. 

During this time Carl had returned to 
the kitchen. He stood leaning against the 
fireplace, looking sullenly at the strangers. 
Ferdinand, whose thoughts were entirely 
occupied with the fruitlessness of his jour- 
ney, let his eyes pass absently over the 
boy's features, at first; then fixed them on 
him intently and thoughtfully, as a vision 
of his old friend's face rose before him and 
looked sadly and reproachfully at him from 
the features of this boy; and, innocent as 
he was of the fate of his friend, it came 
upon him with a certain burden of respon- 
sibility, as a load upon his conscience, as 
human misery will reproach us; we cannot 
alter fate, and yet how much we might 
change, were we only more helpful, more 
warm and active in our sympathy ! With 
this feeling, with the thought of what 
might become of this boy, whose character 
seemed in such urgent need of discipline, 
Ferdinand was impelled to offer his assist- 
ance. 

" It would be easier for you, Frau Draus- 
feld," he said, "if you were relieved of the 



care of at least one of your children, would 
it not?" 

Frau Drausfeld looked inquiringly at 
him. 

"It would be hard for me," she said, " to 
part with one of them; but whether hard or 
easy, one is seldom asked in this life," she 
added, with a sigh. She had seated herself 
again and was looking apathetically at the 
floor. 

"I should like to do something for your 
husband's children," answered Ferdinand. 
" Would it suit you, if I should take your 
oldest boy home with me, and prepare him 
for some occupation for which he has the 
taste and ability ? I would provide for him 
until he should be able to take care of him- 
self. I am not rich enough to open to him 
any very brilliant career. But I would see 
that he has good instruction and a respecta- 
ble position in life. " 

"Your offer is exceedingly kind, Herr 
von Schott, and I thank you for it," an- 
swered the widow, without, however, ex- 
pressing the slightest gratitude by the tone 
in which she spoke. " It depends on Carl 
himself," she added, "whether he will go 
with you. The boy has a will of his ow )." 

" Then we will ask him," said Ferdinand. 
" How is it, Carl, will you go with me, so 
that I may send you to a good school, and 
afterward put you into some business where 
you will soon be able to take care of your- 
self and do something for your mother and 
your brothers and sisters ?" 

The young fellow looked with a shy and 
undecided glance from his mother to Fer- 
dinand, and back again to his mother. It 
seemed as if the prospect opened before 
him was not what he would have taken from 
his own free choice, as if it presented not 
the slightest resemblance to his dreams and 
fancies of the future. As he had wandered 
among the pines and firs around his home, 
he must have drawn quite different pictures 
of what awaited him in the great world, 
and the wind piping through the trees, his 
only comrade, must have sung more roman- 
tic songs of fortune and glory than any he 
found in this tame promise of school and 
business. 

He looked at his mother, whose eyes 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



4^ 



\ rested npon him without expressing any ex- 
pectation, any anxiety in regard to his an- 
swer; they expressed nothing but dull, utter 
despondency. But in that very expression 
there seemed to be an eloquence that melted 
everything hard and defiant in the boy; 
there was a quiver in his face, as from the 
violent suppression of rising tears. He 
stepped up to his mother, laid his hand 
upon her shoulder, looked long and search- 
ingly into Ferdinand's face, and said: 

' ' I will come to you, if my mother thinks 
best, hereafter; to-day and to-morrow I 
will stay with my mother." 

"Very well, that is right," said Ferdi- 
nand, affected by the boy's manner. "You 
ought to stay with your mother now; and 
then she can send you to me. Give me 
your Hand upon it." 

Carl took the offered hand without much 
warmth. Ferdinand gave the mother direc- 
tions about sending him, and then the two 
men took leave, and mounted their horses 
to ride back through the woods and over the 
snowy moor. The fog had rolled up into 
thick, heavy, dark gray clouds which cov- 
ered the plain as they emerged from the 
forest. The forester took the direction of 
the church-tower of Ehleru, now distinctly 
visible. Ferdinand was obliged to take the 
circuitous route with him; he could not 
think of attempting to return alone by the 
direct route to the mail and railroad station 
from which they had come, as night would 
overtake him on his way. 

So he rode silently along beside the for- 
ester, who was also thoughtful and self-ab- 
sorbed under the impression of what he 
had just witnessed. Ferdinand's thoughts 
were busy with the days when both he and 
Emil Drausfeld had dreamed so little of the 
turn their lives were to take; when Emil had 
lived for the present, so careless and uncon- 
cerned for the future, as if borne upon the 
waves of the music within him, an anima 
candidal And how had he been punished 
for his want of energy and the indolence 
that seemed inseperable from his talent 
and his disposition? It was, indeed, a 
hard fate. To be sure, he had brought it 
upon himself. The duties the world im- 
posed upon him and which were repellant 



to his nature, he had performed badly; he 
had not strength to master his inclinations, 
to cast behind him his love of art for the 
sake of bread, to contend in the struggle 
for existence with those that were stronger 
than he. These were crimes that could not 
weigh very heavy in the balance of the in- 
finite Judge; they were not necessarily con- 
nected with an evil heart; it is possible to 
be such a criminal and yet have a heart full 
of love and a helpful hand for all with 
whom one is thrown into contact — to be a 
faithful friend and a self-denying husband 
and father, to be what Emil Drausfeld had 
been through life. 

But it was Emil's misfortune that these 
are the very crimes most cruelly punished 
in life — the very crimes that the avenging 
hand of circumstance never spares, which it 
pursues with relentless rage to the very last, 
and for which it inflicts more stripes than 
for the most heartless and soulless villany ! 



CHAPTER VIII. 

IRENE. 

Ferdinand von Schott had returned from 
his winter excursion, and was once more 
within the four walls of his home, four 
strong, massive, firm walls they were. This 
house was perhaps sixty miles west from the 
barren waste where Emil Drausfeld's life 
had closed, not far from the Rhine, and in a 
region somewhat renowned for its scenery. 
It was a broad valley, inhabited by an active, 
industrial people; a rapid river, which had 
been made navigable at great expense, 
flowed through it; it was enclosed on both 
sides by hills, not very high, but thickly 
wooded; still it was far from being a se- 
cluded vale; on the contrary, the ruling 
powers of the time had taken possession of 
it; whatever idyllic charm it might have 
had, was destroyed by the railroads and fac- 
tories, and the bran-new villas that stretched 



43 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



along both sides of the river. In looking 
over the valley from one of the heights, the 
attention would have been drawn especially 
to three points. On the right bank of the 
river was a little town, with a great, many- 
towered cathedral, seeming disproportion- 
' ately large for the size of the city. Enclosed 
by a wide circle of gardens with pavilions 
and little villas, or larger country-houses, it 
had long burst through the enclosure of its 
ancient fortifications, of which only a tower 
here and there still remained; the finest and 
largest projected into the water of the river, 
that washed around its base. The second 
point was a castle with a wing on either side, 
whose long rows of shining windows looked 
down from a slight elevation, the spur of a 
higher one beyond; a double line of lindens 
extended from the height to the gardens of 
the city, like a broad band by which it 
might hold fast the busy, restless little town. 
To-day, perhaps, the citizens would have 
little cause to think of anything emblematic 
in this green band, but there had been 
times when the relation between the castle 
and the city would have been aptly symbol- 
ized by it. 

Opposite the castle, but below on the 
other side of the westward flowing river, was 
a large, new villa, rising above high ter- 
races on the gently sloping side of a moun- 
tain, and appearing to be surrounded by ex- 
tensive grounds laid out for a park. 

This villa was the residence of a celebrated 
manufacturer whose immense factories lay 
farther up the river. The castle was inhab- 
ited by a prince formerly sovereign, and 
now mediatized — that is, it was his residence 
when, as now, he was in the place, and not 
in Nice, or at his villa on Lake Como, or at 
the capital, where he spent a large part of 
his time. 

The house to which Ferdinand von Schott 
had returned, was at the upper end of the 
city; it was a long, old, unpretending build- 
ing; the office of the royal landrath occupied 
the lower story; the upper was used by him 
as a dwelling; it made up in the size of the 
rooms and passages for what it lacked in 
light and cheerfulness, in modern conveni- 
ences and comforts. 

In one of these rooms, the windows of 



which were darkened by the dark-gray rook- 
haunted walls of the cathedral which rose 
dismally near to them, and looked out at 
the right upon a dry grass-plat, two ladies 
Were seated. The older one, who might 
have been somewhat over thirty, was seated 
on the sofa and engaged in some feminine 
occupation; the younger was leaning back 
in a low rocking chair opposite. The beau- 
tiful and serious face of the elder, whose 
somewhat too colorless features bore some 
resemblance in form and expression to those 
of Ferdinand von Schott, were bent over 
the material on which she was engaged. 
The other was a girl of not more than sev- 
enteen or eighteen, with a round, rosy face, 
full of life and grace, and blonde curls: as 
she rocked gently back and forth in her 
bright blue dress, she looked like a blue 
flower swaying in the wind. 

But her face was far from wearing the 
careless expression of a flower, for the tears 
stood in her eyes, and her brows were drawn 
together and her lips quivering with sorrow. 

"And I have told you everything, Aunt 
Adele, everything, that I have not told to 
any one else in the world — not even to my 
mother or my Aunt Elsie, and now you have 
no help and no counsel for me !" 

"Is confidence always enough to bring 
help, you f oolish child ? It would, indeed, 
be very pleasant, if, by our confidence, we 
could always give others the power to help 
us!" 

" Oh, but you certainly could help us if 
you only would. For there must be some 
way to help us. It is all so strange, so un- 
natural and mysterious, that it only needs a 
real sensible person to come and set every- 
thing right with a few kind and sensible 
words. Herr Kronhorst threatens to send 
William abroad for three years if he has the 
least reason to believe that William has any 
more thought of me. And now, just tell 
me why is it ? why should William be for- 
bidden to think of me ? And my mother, 
instead of standing by us, hates Herr Kron- 
horst; she . hates to have me mention his 
name, and takes care to avoid every place 
where she might meet him. And Aunt 
Elsie, since she noticed how it was with 
us — with William and me — has not invited 



FIRE AND FLAME: 



47 



Herr Kronhorst to the castle a single time 
when we were there, although you know 
yourself, Aunt Adele, how the prince likes 
him, and likes to talk with him better than 
with any one else. Now, is not all that mys- 
terious? What have they all against it? 
Are not William and I suited to each other, 
and does he not love me, and am I not 
always good to him? And I am rich, as 
you said yourself, Aunt Adele, and why is 
Herr Kronhorst so opposed to it? And 
why does my mother hate William's father, 
and why is Aunt Elsie so opposed to it? 
Tell me, Aunt Adele, tell me; I am no 
longer a child. Explain all this to me." 

"I cannot explain it to you Irene, be- 
lieve me," answered Adele, looking up and 
letting her work fall in her lap, as she rested 
her elbow on the arm of the sofa, and sup- 
porting her chin in her hand, looked up at 
the old cathedral wall. "These people of 
whom you complain are not all as open and 
confiding toward me as you are. Not one 
of them has entrusted his secrets to me; 
and as to the grounds for their actions, I 
have not the slightest suspicion. " 

Irene looked doubtingly at her, and inter- 
rupted her with — 

" But, Aunt Adele, you are so shrewd; if 

you only would " 

"If I would what, my child ?" 
"If you would ask them — if you would 
speak for us. Oh, it must be they would 
see how foolish they are, that William and 
I love each other too dearly to be separated; 
that it is unchristian, abominable, tyranni- 
cal, to try to separate us, and that they will 
never, never accomplish it; that we will die 
sooner than give each other up !" 

Adele's eyes turned from the dusky old 
wall, and rested on the excited face of the 
girl with an expression of lively sympathy; 
the passionate words were followed by a 
violent fit of sobbing. 

Adele laid her hand on Irene's arm, and 
said, softly: — 

"Is it, then, so serious, so tragically se- 
rious, Irene?" 

"Do you not believe it? Must I throw 
myself into the pond there under the old 
poplars to make you believe it?" 

"Why, child, how passionate you are!" I 
4 



exclaimed Adele, startled at Irene's violence. 
"Control yourself; I did not think you 
were taking the matter so much to heart; a 
seventeen-year-old heart forgets so easily. 
What is more natural than that I should 
think the little pearls in your eyelashes 
were only the drops of dew on a rose leaf, 
which the wind brushes away in an hour ? 
Heavens ! do these children know what 
deep, ineradicable love is ? But, Irene, do 
not look so angry and excited because I am 
a little incredulous. It is not for your ad- 
vantage, my poor child, to convince me 
that the matter is so extremely serious." 

"Advantage? What do I care for ad- 
vantage or disadvantage ?" answered Irene, 
half angrily, half sadly, as she dried her 
eyes with her handkerchief. "I only want 
to show you how unhappy I am. I only 
want you to know all, all; to see howl 

suffer " 

"But," interrupted Adele, "that is the 
very thing. If I can believe that it is only 
one of the ordinary fancies of a young girl, 
who, when she meets with obstacles, sheds 
a few tears over the hard-heartedness of 
parents and the terrible cruelty of the 
world, and then forgets her sorrow over the 
question whether she shall wear a rose-pink 
or a sea-green dress at the next ball, then I 
could be your friend, and do my best to 
help you by my advice to be reasonable, 
and to forget and overcome the unhappiness 
connected with this little episode in your 
life. But, if you convince me that you are 
so serious and desperate in the matter, so 
that I am obliged to conclude that all my 
advice is entirely useless, and that opposi- 
tion will only make matters worse, then 
nothing is left for me but to forbid you to 
talk to me about it. What else can I do ? 
I cannot help you to resist the will of your 
mother, or encourage William to act in op- 
position to his father's express command. 
I should be abusing most shamefully the 
confidence placed in me by your mother 
and your aunt, in allowing you to brighten 
so many of my lonely hours. Do you un- 
derstand, little obstinacy ?" 

"Oh," answered Irene, poutingly; "I 
only understand that you are all against us. 
I only wish I understood why 1" 



4S 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



Adele shrugged her shoulders. 

' ' I am not against you, Irene, not at all. 
On the contrary, you both have rny full 
sympathy. I have told you that I myself 
cannot understand the opposition of your 
mother and of Herr Kronhorst. So far as 
I can see, you are very well suited to each 
other. But as your parents have reasons 
for thinking otherwise, you owe it to them 
to believe that those reasons are so import- 
ant and decisive that you ought to submit 
to them." 

While Adele was speaking, Irene had 
given little attention to the sympathy ex- 
pressed in Adele's whole look and manner; 
she had listened absently, half absorbed in 
her own thoughts. She had taken one 
corner of her handkerchief between her 
teeth and was pulling at it, her face still 
cloudy and sullen; suddenly she said, bit- 
terly: — 

"Do you, then, really believe, Aunt 
Adele, that my mother has f important and 
decisive reasons,' as you call them, to be 
against William ? Poor mother ? I believe 
she would have nothing against it if she did 
not have to obey Aunt Elsie in this as in 
everything else. What Aunt Elsie wills is 
law to her; and why it is so is another rid- 
dle to me. My mother is so free, so inde- 
pendent ! She might act her own pleasure, 
and do exactly what seems right in her own 
eyes. But she does nothing but what Aunt 
Elsie wishes. It seems as if she could not 
think without Aunt Elsie! What pleases 
Aunt Elsie has to please her." 

"That is not so very strange, my dear 
child. Your mother has no other relatives, 
no one else in the world but your Aunt 
Elsie and you. Your father, my cousin 
Alexander, died so early; and we, my 
brother Ferdinand and I, are so distantly 
related. It is, therefore, natural that she 
should cling to the sister she loves " 

"Loves? Aunt Adele, do you believe 
that my mother loves Aunt Elsie so exceed- 
ingly well?" 

"Why, of course! Do you not believe 
it ? Why should she not ?" 

Irene shook her head, doubtingly. 

"Well, now, what do you mean by that 
mysterious face, you foolish child?" 



"Only," said Irene, lowering her voice, 
" that I believe my mother fears Aunt Elsie 
much more than she loves her !" 

Adele shrugged her shoulders again and 
shook her head. 

" She has not the slightest reason to fear 
her," she said, fixing her eyes, with an ex- 
pression of wonder, on the girl's face. She 
may have been thinking how observing and 
sharp-sighted love had made this young 
girl, heretofore so careless, so unconcerned 
about anything beyond the passing hour. 

" She cannot have the slightest reason," 
she continued. "Your mother is the older 
sister; she is rich and independent. Why 
should she fear your Aunt Elsie? But, 
think; your Aunt Elsie has become a prin- 
cess; everyone pays homage to her, admires 
her beauty and her talent, or flatters her be- 
cause she is the ruling spirit in the prince's 
house. Hence it is natural that your 
mother, the widow of Major Schott, whose 
rank i3 low compared with that of your 
Aunt Elsie, and who, moreover, is "natur- 
ally so gentle and yielding — what is more 
natural than that she should adopt the man- 
ner of others, and should show a deference 
to her sister which looks, to the eyes of chil- 
dren like you, as if she feared her." 

Irene shook her head. 

" Oh, no, no, Aunt Adele. I know she 
fears her," she answered, decidedly, and 
then was silent again. And Adele, who did 
not seem inclined to push the question far- 
ther, was also silent. 

Presently they heard a carriage rattling 
over the pavement, and then suddenly audi- 
ble only by the sound of wheels passing 
over turf or gravel. Irene rose and stepped 
to the window looking into the open space. 

1 4 There is the carriage to take my mother 
and me to the castle," she said. " I must 
go. It is too bad of you, Aunt Adele, to 
send me home without any better comfort." 

"How can I give you any better comfort 
than I have, my child?" answered Adele, 
helping Irene on with a warm wrap that 
had been lying on the arm of the sofa. 
" Shall I see you soon again ? To-mor- 
row ?" 

"Yes, Aunt Adele, if I £>ossibly can; at 
this time." 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



49 



"I shall expect you. You know you 
always come into my dark rooms and my 
dark days like a sunbeam, though to-day 
the sunbeam shines through the rain. But 
the rain-clouds will soon pass off — we will 
hope so — if Godwill." 

" Oh, but they will not pass off, not at 
all," answered Irene, with a tragic sigh; 
* 1 on the contrary, they will keep growing 
thicker and blacker, and at last they will 
roll up into a terrible tempest, and scatter 
lightnings and thunderbolts." 

"Oh, not so bad as that, I hope," an- 
swered Adele, smiling. "And now good- 
bye, my dear child." 

She kissed her young friend; Irene em- 
braced her cordially, and then went down 
to the door where a liveried footman helped 
her into an elegant carriage, drawn by two 
spirited black horses. 



CHAPTER IX. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 

When she was gone, Adele resumed her 
place by the window and took up her work 
again; but after a little she let it fall into 
her lap, and looked thoughtfully through 
the window at the dark old pillars of the 
cathedral and at the gray stone bishop 
standing opposite, on the column at the cor- 
ner, his weather-beaten face staring sullenly 
into the damp winter air. Time had robbed 
him of his entire right arm and the hand 
that had held the shepherd's crook; to reach 
him at that height, the bold plunderer must 
have employed a crowd of street-boys to do 
his malicious bidding. But with his re- 
maining hand the stone man clasped to his 
breast a ponderous volume, his only conso- 
lation — containing, it must be, promises 
and pledges enough of certain and terrible 
future retribution to be visited upon Time 
and his crowd of malicious gamins. More- 
over, he was backed by the mighty church, 
with which he revengefully cast (Jeep black 



shadows on everything around, and spread 
melancholy and gloom over the whole neigh- 
borhood. The heavy shadows reached far 
into the great room where Adele sat. 

She was thinking of the question put to 
her by her young relative, who called her 
aunt, though the relationship was much 
more remote. It was, indeed, difficult ot 
understand why Herr Kronhorst, the great 
manufacturer, who controlled the industries 
of the place, should so determinedly oppose 
a marriage of his oldest son, William, to 
Irene — why the heir of the great villa we 
have mentioned as one of the chief orna- 
ments of the valley, should not marry a girl 
with a property of perhaps a hundred thou- 
sand thalers. Herr Kronhorst was a man 
of genius, a great and strong character, 
who had risen from straitened circum- 
stances to a position almost princely. He 
was the originator of the great iron indus- 
tries of the region, their head and control- 
ling spirit; and with this his ambition 
seemed to be fully satisfied; he had persist- 
ently refused offers of civil honors and pro- 
motion in rank, and had kept his plain 
burgher name. What, then, could he have 
against Irene, who was, indeed, the daugh- 
ter of a major, but was also the niece of a 
princess ? Perhaps he thought she had be- 
come spoiled by spending most of her time 
at the court of a petty prince. But he 
himself stood in the most friendly relations 
to that little court, and was a friend of the 
prince; and even if Irene had learned to 
live in a little too grand a style, if she had 
become accustomed to luxury, what was 
that to a man whose wealth was almost in- 
calculable? And, then, why should Irene's 
mother, formerly Matilda von Melroth, and 
now the widow of Major Schott — why 
should she refuse to hear of such a thing ? 
Why should her younger sister, Elsie von 
Melroth, now the reigning Princess of 
Lohburg-Achsenstein, who, as Irene her- 
self had observed, influenced and controlled 
her yielding elder sister in .everything ? 
She could imagine no reason for it. There 
was, it is true, a mystery about the former 
life of the princess — a mystery that threw 
darker shadows on her brother Ferdinand's 
life than the eld stone bishop could cast 



50 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



into the lonesome street, with the great 
minster behind him. But even all these 
dark and improbable suppositions, with 
which her brother was tormenting himself, 
and which were making him a gloomy, un- 
happy, embittered man — even if they were 
true, as Adele could not believe, even then 
she could find no explanation. There was 
nothing in any of them that could constitute 
a reason for Herr Kronhorst angrily forbid- 
ding his son to think of such a thing as a 
union with the innocent Irene Schott. 

Adele sympathized most strongly with 
the girl. She knew how strong her feelings 
were, how deep and constant her nature 
was. Toward strangers Irene's manner was 
quiet, shy, and reserved — warm and open 
as she was at times to her friends. She 
was subject to peculiar changes of mood, 
much more than is ordinarily the case with 
girls of her years; she was, moreover, some- 
what obstinate, capricious, self-dependent; 
this was, however, partly a result of her 
education, which, as Irene had often com- 
plained to her brother, had been as faulty 
as possible. Irene's mother had always 
striven to fulfil her duty to her daughter, 
conducting her education with conscien- 
tious regularity; but her sister Elsie had 
counteracted the influence of all that, by 
the irresponsible way in which she attracted 
Irene to herself, by indulging all her ca- 
prices, and giving way to all her obstinacy. 
Irene was much less under the care of her 
more sensible mother than under that of her 
indulgent aunt. It seemed as if Elsie, who 
had no children of her own, could not live 
in her great castle, with its spacious, lone- 
some rooms, without Irene. She spent 
most of her time at Achsenstein, shared her 
aunt's pursuits and went with her on her 
journeys, sang and read for her. When 
there was an unusual number of guests at 
the castle, Elsie allowed her niece to remain 
with her sister. People thought it cruel 
and selfish in the princess to take the child 
from her lonely mother, and- weak in the 
mother to allow it. 

Adele reflected on the effect this first' 
great opposition to her wishes, and inclina- 
tions that Irene had ever .met with, must 
produce on a character like hers, whose 



natural tendency to obstinacy and deter- 
mination had been so injudiciously fostered 
by Elsie's indulgence; possibly this very 
opposition might develop a strength of pas- 
sion of which otherwise she would have 
been wholly incapable. Adele, the only one 
with whom Irene was perfectly frank, had a 
difficult task, to console and cheer, to advise 
self-denial and renunciation, and to preach 
reason, which is as hard for a young head as 
resignation for a young heart. 

While Adele sat thinking, the shadows 
thrown into the room by the old church 
walls had grown deeper and deeper, and 
now a light rain began to draw gray lines 
down the dark surface of the wall, increas- 
ing the darkness and making deep twilight 
in every corner of the melancholy room. 
It seemed as if the stuccoed beams that sup- 
ported the roof had settled down, making 
the low room still lower, and as if the dark, 
high wainscoting around the walls had 
grown browner and gloomier. Adele arose 
shivering. She stepped over to the fire- 
place to stir the glowing coals, when her 
maid came in to announce Frau Groebler, 
the wife of the police inspector. She was 
followed by an energetic step, and a lady 
came bustling into the room — the same who, 
in the old merry days in H., had recited her 
adjectives with such a peculiar pathetic em 
phasis — then Fraulein Theresa Holbrecht, 
now a wife and mother, the life-companion of 
Herr Groebler, who had been promoted for 
his services in behalf of the public safety. 
Herr Groebler had failed to capture that 
traitor years ago; he had been too late to lay 
his hand on the dangerous fugitive; but in 
countless other cases his services in behalf 
of the insulted public conscience and of 
moral principle had been signal, and so he 
had been promoted from police commissary 
to inspector, and removed to E. — for what 
reasons we shall see hereafter. Theresa 
Holbrecht had accompanied him as his wife; 
and she had come at this twilight hour, to 
inquire Whether the Landrath von Schott 
had returned in safety from his winter ex- 
cursion, and to express her anxiety about 
her husband, who had gone away several 
days before in this dreadful weather, with- 
out leaving any word as to where he was go- 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



51 



ing, and had not jet returned, though the 
weather was so stormy and cold, and though 
Groebler ought to think that he should 
spare himself and remember his wife and 
children, and ought to consider that the iron 
constitution on which he presumed might 
at last be broken, while he would still need 
it so long in his calling. While she was 
saying this, Frau Theresa loosened her 
water-proof and tLa strings of her bonnet, 
and took a seat before the fire on the chair 
which Adele had moved up for her. The 
features of her long face, which had grown 
sharper and thinner, shone in the blaze on 
the hearth at which she was warming her 
gloved hands. 

"My brother," said Adele, in answer to 
her inquiries, taking a light cane chair be- 
side the fire-place, "my brother returned 
two days ago. He had a very sad journev. 
He went to seek out an old acquaintance, 
and found him dead; he had died in poverty 
and in most miserable circumstances — the 
poor fellow, on a dismal heath " 

"Ah, do you not mean Emil Drausfeld?" 
cried Frau Theresa. 

"That was his name. I never saw him, 
but from all my brother says of him, he 
must have been a noble, generous man; 
Ferdinand returned very much depressed.'' 

"Emil Drausfeld dead!" said Frau 
Theresa, sadly. "The poor, poor fellow! 
How sorry I am !" 

"Ferdinand," continued Adele, "found 
the family in such a destitute condition, 
that he offered to take the care of the old- 
est boy. The boy will be here in a few 
days." 

" That is kind of your brother, very 
kind," answered Frau Theresa, softly, with- 
out turning her eyes away from the glowing 
coals into which she was looking, thought- 
fully and absently. After a pause she said, 
" And had your brother heard how hard it 
was going with poor Emil, and did he go to 
see him once more before he died ?" 

" No, not that; he had no idea of his con- 
dition. He wanted to talk with him and 
get some explanations in regard to a matter 
that no one but Drausfeld could explain." 

" Ah !" said Frau Theresa, turning quick- 
ly toward Adele, "and these explanations 



concerned — do you know whom they con- 
cerned ? Did your brother tell you ? " 

"I," answered Adele, evasively, " I did 
not ask, and if I have any conjectures, 
I " 

"I am much too discreet to tell them to 
the curious, you were going to say," inter- 
rupted Frau Theresa, with a rather disdaiu- 
ful smile. " You are r'ght, you are right," 
she continued, moving her hand as if to 
ward off Adele's answer; " but I think we 
need not be more discreet toward each other 
than our masters and tyrants are between 
themselves — if you have no objections to my 
giving that name to your brother as well as 
to that sly husband of mine !" 

"I have no objections," said Adele, look- 
ing at her intently, " so go on." 

"We need not be more discreet toward 
each other than they have been between 
themselves," repeated Frau Theresa, "and 
discreet they have not been, for I can guess 
at the connection between these two jour- 
neys. I can guess what sent them both out 
in this dreadful weather." 

"What do you guess?" asked Adele, sur- 
prised, and observing anxiously the sharp 
profile of the face that Frau Theresa turned 
to the fire again. 

"That I am partly to blame, for one 
thing. And I will give Groebler a good lec- 
ture when he comes back for not keeping to 
himself things that his poor, innocent wife 
confides to him in hours of weakness; be- 
cause, instead of forgetting them, he makes 
a note of them and puts them to such a bad 
use !" 

" And what can you have confided to him 
that has driven them both out in this 
weather? You confided to him that you 
knew Emil Drausfeld at the time you were 
so much at the house of the Melroths — my 
brother has told me about those times — you 
were a circle of merry young people — and 
then?" 

"And then," said Frau Theresa, " I told 
him more about Emil Drausfeld; of his ap- 
pointment to the Vellinghaus forest; and 
how, in the first few years, he had found it 
so hard to stay there, that from time to time 
he had asked leave of absence and had spent 
a f aw days at H. ; and how he had staid for 



52 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



hours talking to me, and had put it a little 
plainer, perhaps, than he needed to — the 
poor fellow ! that he would be very happy 
if I would follow him into Ms Vellinghads 
pine woods, while of course I couldn't think 
of such a thing as going there to shrivel up 
into a pine-cone; and how we had talked 
about the others, who, after Father Melroth. 
was taken away, had been scattered like 
leaves in the wind; of your brother Ferdi- 
nand and of Elsie Melroth most, and how 
Emil Drausfeld had confessed to me that he 
sometimes had news from Elsie Melroth, 
short communications not really intended 
for him, but for an old friend of Elsie's who 
had gone across the ocean; and that this 
old friend of Elsie's, who was now entirely 
forgotten in H., wrote to him also from time 
to time, that he might send news of him to 
Elsie. All this I confided to that doubting 
Thomas, Groebler; for why should I not, 
after I had given him my promise, why 
should I not tell him all about my past life 
and the people I had known in my then 
short experience? But I could not tell 
him any more, for Emil had been strangely 
silent and reserved in regard to everything 
else about the matter. Probably he had 
pledged himself to keep it secret. When 
I asked him why those two people did not 
write directly to each other when they had 
communications to make, instead of em- 
ploying a third person, he answered, 1 There 
are circumstances in life, Fraulein Theresa, 
where it is preferable to do so; when people 
no longer like to speak directly to each other 
or look each other in the face, and yet there 
are circumstances which compel them from 
time to time to send word to each other; 
then it is easiest and most discreet for them 
to confide in some good-natured friend, and 
make a sort of speaking-trumpet of him.' 
That was all the explanation Emil would 
give me; and when I said the only such 
case I could imagine would be that of two 
, married people who had separated, and yet 
might have to communicate with each other 
in reference to their property, he said I 
must not think of it, or talk any more about 
it; that he had already talked too much 
about the matter, which he had promised to 
keep secret. That is what I afterward told 



my doubting Thomas, when I had become 
acquainted with him. Emil Drausfeld's 
visits had ceased then; he had found an- 
other girl, who was willing to go with him 
to the Vellinghaus forest, and the trips to 
H. were probably too expensive for the poor 
fellow. That is what I told Groebler, and 
now when he comes home, I will find out 
whether these two gentlemen have been 
trying to make capital out of that, and have 
been out to the pine woods of Vellinghaus 
to rake up old stories out of the snow that 
do not concern them, and which may in the 
end expose the princess most cruelly, and 
make her trouble with her husband, if he 
should hear of it. It would be abominable 
in them " 

44 It would be abominable in us to suspect 
them of dishonorable designs," interrupted 
Adele, " and it would be very hasty in us to 
judge of the subject from what little we 
know. As you say yourself, it is only a 
guess of yours, that these two journeys have 
some connection with the information you 
gave your husband so long ago, and as we 
know nothing positive about it, let us leave 
it to them to carry out what they have kept 
to themselves , as an official secret." 

Frau Theresa nodded. "Oh, yes," she 
said, 4 'that is your quiet, gentle disposition, 
Fraulein von Schott. But I am not so 
yielding. It vexes me to have my husband 
play the mysterious in an affair that he 
would never have known of but for me, and 
that he knows I have- more interest in than 
almost any one else. And if I find out that 
they are intriguing against the princess, I 
will make his life such a burden to him, that 
all the stories they tell about Frau Xantippe 
will be thrown completely into the shade !" 

44 You have a good, warm heart for your 
old friends, Frau Groebler," said Adele. 

4 4 Not always, and not exactly for all of 
them," answered Frau Theresa. 4 4 But this 
proud and self-willed Elsie Melroth, who 
has climbed up to her princely station by 
her pride, I am sorry for poor Elsie. When 
I came here with my husband, I went to 
call upon her, with a presentiment of the 
kind of reception I should meet with, of 
the insulting condescension and coolness 
and half-cordiality with which such people 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



53 



hold out two fingers to their dear old 
friend, while they are inwardly execrating 
the stupid fate that has thrown her again in 
their way. And when I saw her, I couldn't 
help envying her for the wonderful beauty 
she had kept all these years. She had 
scarcely changed at all; she had the same 
forehead, with the rich dark hair waving 
over it, and the same bright, young eyes; 
she was the same 'Flame,' at which, as 
Emil Drausfeld once said, the moths used 
to burn their wings. She was only a little 
paler, a little more delicate and slender. 
She embraced me and greeted me without 
the least affectation or reserve; she was not 
as lively and brusque in conversation as she 
used to be; she was more quiet and serious 
and self -controlled; but there was nothing 
unnatural in her manner, not the slightest 
attempt to put on airs of superiority. That 
touched my heart, from the woman now so 
far above poor Theresa Groebler, and I 
talked cordially and openly with her about 
everything; and then, Fraulein Adele, I 
found that this great lady is not happy with 
all her splendor; and that something has 
happened to her that her pride cannot get 
over, and there is something broken that all 
her wealth and elegance cannot heal. That 
is what I found out, and since then I have 
been sorry for her; and woe to my Thomas 
if he is meddling with things that she 
would not for the world have a detective 
meddling with !" 

Adele was silent at these words, which 
were spoken with a warmth that spoke well 
for Frau Theresa's heart. If she was in 
her brother's confidence, and if she knew 
that he and the "doubting Thomas," as 
Frau Theresa called him, were meddling 
with things that the princess must wish to 
leave dead and buried, then her brother 
must have imposed strict secrecy upon her; 
for she said nothing, but sat looking at the 
glowing coals on the hearth. Theresa, too, 
had become thoughtful, and looked in si- 
lence at the tips of her boots, which she 
had stretched toward the fire. At length 
Adele said: 

"And when Emil Drausfeld told you 
about the letters he had received from Elsie 
Melroth, did he tell you nothing about the 



man that wrote to him from over the ocean 
— letters whose contents were intended for 
Elsie Melroth ? Or did you know him your- 
self ?" 

"Philip Bonsart? Did 1 know him? 
No, I did not know him. I never saw him. 
But I had heard enough of him to know 
whom Emil meant when he began to tell 
me about those letters. Philip Bonsart: 
there was a time when they talked of noth- 
ing else in H. He was from the same place 
as Elsie Melroth, and they must have grown 
up together. Afterward, he was sent to 
school and to the university, and then, in 
the spring of 1849, I think it was, the dis- 
turbances broke out, and they told how the 
son of this steward — or perhaps he was 
already the proprietor — of Asthof was going 
about in the city, speaking to the working- 
people, and trying to organize them into a 
body, to unite with some from other parts 
of the country, and march to the capital, 
where they were going to found a republic 
and nobody knows what all! The men 
were all beside themselves, some in anxiety 
and distress, and many jubilant and enthu- 
siastic, and, moreover, very drunk. This 
lasted a week or so, and they hung a great 
flag, black and red and gold, from the win- 
dow of the council-house, though I never 
saw it, for my aunt, with whom I lived, kept 
the house closed all the time; she thought 
a wild mob might break in at any time and 
lay hands on her great silver teapot and her 
old damask cloak, with the sable trimming, 
her two greatest treasures. But, one eve- 
ning, at twilight, a tall, weary-looking man, 
with a great staff and a shining knob on it, 
passed by our house; and this man saved 
my aunt's peace of mind and her teapot, 
and her cloak with the sable trimming; for 
more weary men came behind him, with 
hollow-sounding drums hanging against 
their knees, which were covered with white 
calfskin. And then came more- weary and 
dusty and hungry-looking men, with bay- 
onets on the guns they carried on their 
shoulders; and when they reached the 
market-place, and let their guns fall on the 
pavement, then the wild days were at an 
end, the flag disappeared from the council- 
house, and the anxiety from the hearts of 



54 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



the good burghers who had silver teapots 
to lose; nothing more was heard of the re- 
public and the army of freedom, and Philip 
Bonsart had left for parts unknown. Some 
said he had gone with the boldest of the 
insurgents to the highlands, where they 
were still more wild and daring. That is all 
I know of him, and all that Emil Draus- 
f eld professed to know. Afterward, as Herr 
Groebler told me, he returned to H, and to 
Asthof . Groebler got wind of it, and tried 
to arrest him; but Bonsart was too sly for 
my sharp husband. Perhaps he came to 
see Elsie Melroth again; I do not know as 
to that, and did not trouble my head about 
it. But I do know that, if there ever was 
anything between them, they were wise to 
separate, and go each his own way, with an 
ocean between them. What could they 
have in common, that proud, aristocratic 
woman, and that wild, crazy insurrection- 
ist?" 

''Certainly, Frau Groc bier," said Adele; 
' ' and they must have seen that soon enough 
to refrain from taking upon themselves ties 
which would have made them unhappy for 
life." 

1 ' Ties ? What ties are you thinking of ?" 
asked Frau Theresa, looking up. As Adele 
did not answer immediately, she continued, 
as she drew her watch from her belt and 
held it to the firelight: "What do you 
mean ? But it is six o'clock — nearly six — 
how the time passes when one is chatting 
so, and how my lambs will be crying for 
me, poor lambs ! I must go back to them." 

She rose hastily, put on her wraps, with 
Adele's help, and departed, probably to for- 
get, among her children, all such dark sub- 
jects, which, as well as the course of the 
outside world, trouble a mother veryjittle 
when she is among her 4 * lambs." 

When she was gone, Adele seated herself 
in her corner again, and rested her chin in 
her hand. There was very little in what 
Frau Groebler had said that was new to her; 
her brother had told her as much in hours 
of confidence, when he had given her a 
glimpse of his inmost heart. She was 
thinking only of what Frau Theresa had 
said of the impression the princess had made 
upon her. There was something broken 



that would not heal, as Frau Theresa had 
expressed it, and was not that the best word 
for what Adele herself had felt when she 
had talked with the princess, as she had 
done only a few times and at long inter- 
vals? There seemed to be something 
broken in her which could not be healed. 
There was a sore spot in her soul; there 
was something at which her heart bled, 
and over which she threw the veil of a 
lofty pride, but without being able to de- 
ceive an old acquaintance like Theresa 
Holbrecht, or a nature of such fine percep- 
tions as Adele's. And around this wound 
in Elsie's heart, what he called her secret, 
her poor brother's thoughts were constantly 
revolving. He saw a crime lying deep 
below it all. Something not to be thought 
of ! Something that Adele's pure and clear 
soul rejected as wholly impossible. And 
he was trying to get upon the track of this 
crime. He had bent to that end all the en- 
ergy of his obstinate will, all the fire of his 
nature. What impelled him to it ? What 
was the real motive that made him so rest- 
less, so eager in the pursuit ? This was what 
Adele had brooded over for long, lonely 
hours in these dark winter days, here in 
the shadow of the old church-walls, where 
he had sent for her to come, to share his 
lonely and laborious life. Was it what he 
represented to her — what, perhaps, he made 
himself believe — the prospect of wealth that 
the discovery of a great deception would put 
into his hands ? Adele believed she under- 
stood her brother's heart well enough to 
know that it was not that alone; yes, even that 
it was not that at all; that he was animated 
by a totally different impulse; that a fatality 
chained him to the steps of this woman, and 
that he could not rest, not live, without 
penetrating to the cause of her secret trou- 
ble, in which he certainly saw, whether he 
acknowledged it or not, the reason of her 
being so hard and cold and icy toward him, 
the cause of the deep gulf that yawned be- 
tween them. That was it, Adele said to her- 
self; he wanted to bring light into the gulf 
that separated them, as if the light would 
avail to fill the gulf I 

She was about to ring for lights, when 
Ferdinand entered by a side-door, and, ex- 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



55 



tending his hand to her, placed himself by 
the hearth with his back to the fire. 

Adele arose and went to order lights: 
then, retm-ning, she placed her hands upon 
his shoulder and said — 

"How gloomy you look, Ferdinand; 
have you had vexatious work to-day ?" 

He put his arm gently around her, and, 
looking into her face, answered, somewhat 
absently, after a pause — 

"Vexatious work? Really, I should 
have to think a while before I could tell you 
the subjects of the documents I had to look 
over to-day; and I think that is the most 
vexatious thing of all — to be obliged to 
worry over work that is so little adapted to 
our nature, is so little like that we would 
have chosen in accordance with our own 
tastes and tendencies, that we forget it as 
soon as we rise from the desk." 

"Do you think that is the reason, my 
dear, discontented brother, that you forget 
it so soon?" 

"What else?" 

"Ah, you have other things in your mind, 
things that torment you, that draw all the 
sunshine out of your life, destroy all your 
pleasure, deaden all the ambition you need 
as a spur to interest and activity in your 
business — ugly, wicked, mad ideas, in whose 
power you lie captive like a poor, nerveless 
man, chained by sleep and lying helpless in 
the power of the vampire that is drinking 
his heart's blood !" 

" Oh," answered Ferdinand, with a forced 
smile, "it is the way of women to exagger- 
ate ! I have been thrown by fate into this 
corner of the earth, where I have again 
come into contact with people in regard to 
whom it is my duty to ascertain facts on 
which your and my fortune depends — or 
your and my misfortune, I might better 
say!" 

Adele was silent. She could have made 
many objections to Ferdinand's view of his 
" duty," to his idea of fortune and misfor- 
tune for them both, and of the facts on 
which they depended. But what would it 
avail to talk about it? She said nothing, 
but sighed deeply. 

"How sadly you sigh, Adele," said her 
brother. "Really, the sunshine does not 



come to your face any of fcener than to mine. 
And how could it, after all that has passed?" 

"But it could, it could, Ferdinand, if 
you would think as I do. Think," and she 
laid her head upon her brother's shoulder 
while her eyes were turned thoughtfully to 
the slowly-burning coa]s, " think; with our 
fate it makes much less difference what it is 
than how we take it. Let us take ours on 
the best side. What if I were a poor girl, 
alone in the world, growing old, and sick 
perhaps, with no prospect of anything bet- 
ter, living in some garret and supporting 
myself by the labor of my weak hands — 
would it not be my ideal of happiness to 
have a brother, to be loved by him, to ba 
relieved by him from every care, to be in a 
position where I have everything, and more 
than everything of what habit has made 
necessary, and where I am relieved of all 
anxiety for the future; and knowing, too, 
that I am not living in vain, that I have the 
opportunity of brightening life for my 
brother, of helping him, of giving him the 
care he needs — what an ideal of happiness 
such a life would seem to me ! I often 
think of this, and when I have such a life 
before my imagination, I think to myself, 
you have all this and should you not be 
perfectly happy?" 

Ferdinand looked down at her lovingly, 
and bending down kissed her forehead. 

"How good you are! What a warm, 
noble heart you have !" 

" Does it show a noble heart," she asked, 
smiling, "to count up one's treasures and 
rejoice in their possession ? It shows noth- 
ing but reason; and you, too, ought to have 
this reason " 

* ' And do you think I haven't it ? Do you 
think I do not appreciate the treasure I have 
in such a wise little sister ?" 

" Oh, the little sister is only a small part 
of the possessions that ought to make you 
happy. There are the friends you have 
made, your honorable position in the world, 
your office which " 

"Which," interrupted Ferdinand, smil- 
ing bitterly, "is so many hundred times 
better than, for example, that of a poor for- 
ester at Vellinghaus. In fact, the journey 
I have just made, the thought of the way 



56 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



poor Emil Drausfeld tried to go through 
life and ended by complete shipwreck — that 
alone would be enough to make me happy 
and convince me that I am one of fortune's 
favorites, if I had my sister's angelic dispo- 
sition. Well, Adele, I will do better. I am 
not so bad as you think. I thank God 
every day that I have you. Does that con- 
tent you ? And now, tell me, has Irene been 
with you ?" 

Ade^e resumed her seat by the fire-place 
as she answered: 

' ' The poor child has been here, in bitter 
distress over a scene William Kronhorst has 
had with his father, who forbade him most 
positively to think of marrying Irene. Irene 
was in despair. Their attachment, I am 
afraid, is much too strong for much to be 
effected by any such prohibition. I am 
afraid they are only adding fuel to the fire." 

" Quite possible," said Ferdinand. 

' 'And the more," continued Adele, "as 
Herr Kronhorst gives his son no satisfactory 
reason for his opposition, and William is 
not the one to submit to a merely arbitrary 
command." 

"And Irene's mother is also opposed, I 
believe?" asked Ferdinand. 

"Yes, and the princess, too," answered 
Adele. " Can you imagine the real reason 
why they have all, as it seems, conspired 
against the young people?" 

"Perhaps," said Ferdinand, after a 
thoughtful pause, ' ' Herr Kronhorst sus- 
pects the condition of affairs as I do ; a man 
with his immense influence and resources 
has a thousand ways of getting on the 
track of such things, and does not want a 
daughter-in-law with a dowry that does not 
belong to her. And probably the two wo- 
men are afraid to have the keen eyes of such 
a man turned on their affairs." 

Adele shook her head doubtingl'y, but 
Ferdinand went on, more excitedly : 

' 4 Have we not been told that, before our 
arrival here, Herr Kronhorst was extremely 
attentive to Irene's mother, and was sup- 
posed to be her suitor ? But the friendship 
was suddenly broken off. What had hap- 
pened? Had Frau Schott told him things 
that had frightened him away ? Or had he 
quietly made inquiries about her past life, 



and been more successful than I have been ? 
If he is now so decidedly opposed to his 
son's marrying Irene, without assigning any 
reasons, that will go to confirm such a con- 
jecture, and it is also a confirmation of my 
suppositions." 

" Of your suppositions !" said Adele, in a 
somewhat mocking tone, but with a sigh. 
"You certainly need all tjie confirmation you 
can get for them; they rest on such a weak 
foundation !" 

" That they do not, my wise little siste-. 
I think I have confoundedly strong evidence 
for them !" 

" That Irene does not look as if she be- 
longed to your family; that in her features 
you cannot trace the slightest resemblance 
to what you call the physiognomy of the 
' clan' " 

"Yes, that is one evidence." 

"And that the princess likes to have 
Irene with her; and that seems to me so 
natural." 

"It is so natural, too, that the mother 
should so resignedly give up her child to 
the princess, leaving her entirely to her sis- 
ter's influence, and waiving all her own 
rights!" 

" That is not so bad as you imagine," 
said Adele, shaking her head. "And if 
Irene prefers to stay at Achsentein, what is 
more natural than for such a young girl to 
prefer the brilliant life of a prince's court to 
the lonely and monotonous life of her 
mother's house ?" 

Ferdinand took a cigar from a box on the 
mantle, and as he slowly prepared and 
lighted it at the lamp, he said : 

"It is curious that in this affair we have 
exchanged roles. Usually women can see 
through a thing much sooner than men; but 
here it is I who am most sharp-sighted, 
who put this and that little circumstance 
together, and draw my conclusions from 
them!" 

Adele shrugged her shoulders. 

"It may be," she said, sighing again. 
"Bat what good does it do us to discuss it 
again and again ? The best way would be to 
put it all out of our heads— and hearts. 
But I cannot persuade you to do that I" 

"No," answered Ferdinand, quietly, be- 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



57 



ginning to walk slowly up and down the 
room. 

"Frau Groebler lias been here," began 
Adele, after a pause. " She was anxious 
about her husband's remaining so long 
away. But she left, fully decided to give 
him a most stinging lecture when he does 
come." 

"I expect him back any moment," an- 
swered Ferdinand. 4 4 Bat what has the 
good fellow done to draw down his wife's 
indignation upon him ?" 

"Frau Theresa is sharp," answered 
Adele. "I had no sooner told her that you 
returned very much depressed at Emil 
Drausfeld's death, and that you had hoped 
to get information from him on a subject 
that interested you greatly, than she began 
to suspect what the explanations were that 
you went for." 

" How is that possible ?" 

" How is it possible ? You have just said 
yourself that women have keen eyes. She 
may have observed your former attachment 
to the princess, and have often asked her- 
self about it, and now, when she sees you 
going through the storm to that desolate 
Vellinghaus forest for information of some 
kind, it was natural for her to think of that 
strange correspondence of which Emil 
i Drausfeld had spoken only to her, and of 
which she had told her husband, your be- 
loved Groebler. And the discovery that 
Groebler must have been indiscreet toward 
you, excited Frau Theresa so that she told 

I me all she knew of the matter." 

"Did you confirm her suspicion that I 
| learned that from him?" 

"I neither confirmed nor denied it. I 
j let her tell me what she pleased, and kept 
as quiet as I could. And then — but some 
one is coming. " 

" Perhaps Groebler has come back," said 
Ferdinand, eagerly. 
A servant came in and announced that 

I I the police inspector was in the landrath's 
office, and wished to speak with him. 

Ferdinand went at once to his visitor. 



CHAPTER X. 

IIERR GROEBIiEr's report. 

When Ferdinand entered his office ho 
found the police inspector standing at the 
lower end of the room with his back to the 
stove. Herr Groebler acknowledged his 
presence only with a slight bow. As Fer- 
dinand went to turn up the lamp on his 
writing-desk, he said, in a voice of half- 
suppressed excitement: — 

"At last, Herr Groebler, I thank God 
you are here to put an end to my suspense. 
I am grateful to you for coming at once. 
You must be just from the cars. Take a 
seat. " 

"You must thank my wife for my coming 
at once. I went home, and had just taken 
off my overcoat and begun to taste a cup of 
hot coffee, when I discovered that the army 
was fully equipped for war and on the 
move." 

" That is to say " 

" That is to say that a campaign was de- 
signed. The casus belli was the betrayal 
of revelations of a secret character to a hos- 
tile power." 

"Oh, I understand," said Ferdinand, 
' ' She is angry at you because " 

"Yes, she is angry, my good woman, 
and as a woman's anger is best conquered 
by flight, I hurried away here. What a 
quiet, happy asylum such a bachelor's room 
is!" 

" And yet you have become so spoiled by 
your good wife's care, that you would not 
take very kindly to bachelorhood now ! 
But, first, make yourself comfortable in 
this asylum, as you call it. Take the chair 
there," said Ferdinand, throwing himself 
into the arm-chair in front of his writing- 
desk. 

"Let me stand here and warm my back," 
said Herr Groebler. "The world outside 
is cold, and it is well to have a reserve of 
something warm at one's back." • 

"That is true," said Ferdinand, "one 
does need something of that kind in this 
cold world; and in the struggle for exist- 
ence a reserve force of heart. Is that what 
you mean, Herr Groebler ?" 



58 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



"About that," answered Herr Groebler, 
■whose appearance and manner would lead 
one to expect philosophical observations. 
In the course of years he had grown much 
thinner and sallower; his black hair, that 
used to fall over his forehead in pleasant 
contrast with the tint of his complexion, 
had entirely disappeared in front, and 
grown gray at the back; and the small eyes 
had retreated far back in their sockets, as if 
they had missed the protection of the 
bushy locks above them. On the whole, 
Herr Groebler, with his weary eyes, which 
however, could, on occasion, send out 
swift, arrowy glances, with his bold, deep- 
cut features, and his yellow skin, which 
seemed to have been prepared for greater 
durability by the application of some pow- 
erful acid — on the whole, he looked like a 
man that would be a dangerous antagonist 
in the struggle with life, and that it would 
be well to think twice before engaging with 
him. 

" But now to business," said Ferdinand, 
breathing deeply with excitement. "What 
news do you bring me, Herr Groebler ?" 

" Not much, but some. Nothing actual, 
but a rrospect " 

"Not much, indeed ! What is it ?" 

"I was at Asthof several days. As I 
had nothing else to do there, or, rather, 
nothing at all, I prepared a book of her- 
aldry." 

"A book of heraldry!" exclaimed Fer- 
dinand, in surprise. 

"Yes, indeed, for all Lower Saxony. 
What could have taken me to that stupid 
place in mid-winter except something of 
that kind? The clergyman, with whom I 
soon made friends, comprehended very 
readily that it was a great want, and that I 
should be performing a great and needful 
service by filling this yawning gap. He 
gladly placed at my disposal what he knew 
or could learn of the genealogy of the von 
Melroth family, to whom Asthof formerly 
belonged. There were old gravestones in 
the churchyard and on the walls, old writ- 
ings in the sacristy, and a few books, not 
quite so old, containing the records of the 
christenings, marriages and burials of the 
parishioners. I searched them all through, 



of course, for my work. There was no 
record of a marriage between a Frauleio. 
Elsie von Melroth and a Herr Philip Bon- 
sart." 

"It had been removed; the passage was 
cut out, or the entire leaf torn away?" cried 
Ferdinand, hastily. 

"Nothing of the kind," s? id Herr Groe- 
bler, quietly. " It was not there, and had 
never been there." 

" Are you sure of that, Groebler ?" 

" Quite sure, Herr von Schott. I in- 
quired whether there were any such books 
in the chapel at Asthof, containing records 
of such ceremonies that had taken place 
there. No; such ceremonies did not take 
place there. The manor-house belonged to 
the parish of Asthof, and the proprietors 
belonged, like all the other parishioners, to 
the village church. They could conduct 
private worship in the chapel, but nothing 
more. I asked whether marriage had not 
occasiona ly taken place there. No, not 
that the clergyman knew of, and not that 
the sacristan knew of, and he was an old 
man, old enough to be the father of the 
clergyman, who has been there but eight or 
nine years. I let the subject drop. When 
we were sitting over our wine in the eve- 
ning, I talked to the reverend gentleman 
about the necessity of having the records 
kept by civil officers, as the old custom of 
having them placed in church-books by the 
clergymen was not adapted to modern 
times; the records of the most important 
events of life for the last twenty years were 
inaccurate and defective. It was natural 
that the clergyman should defend the old 
custom very warmly; I defended my asser- 
tion quite as warmly; he grew excited 
and I grew vehement. It was also natural 
that, in order to clinch my argument, I 
should at last refer to a case, which, how- 
ever, was to be kept entirely secret — a case 
in his own parish; a case, too, not con- 
cerning poor farm-hands, whose marriage a 
clergyman might easily forget to record, if 
he happened to be very busy; but concern- 
ing a son of the last proprietor of Asthof 
and a daughter of the one just preceding, 
who were married there in the year 1852, as 
I had learned past all doubt in my genea- 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



59 



logical researches, and of ■whose marriage, 
as I had found that morning, no record had 
been made in the books. The pastor 
laughed at my assertion, but his ambition 
•was aroused, and in the following days he 
began investigations; as every one in the 
parish knew him too well to be reticent or 
suspicious, he could, of course, succeed 
much better than a stranger writing up a 
book of heraldry. And the result of his 
inquiries was that absolutely no one knew 
anything of such a marriage; that no one 
had heard of Philip Bonsart ever being 
married either in this country or in Ame- 
rica, whither he had fled many years before; 
that not a syllable in regard to it had ever 
been uttered either by this clergyman's pre- 
decessor, or by the father or other relatives 
of Philip, who had remained at Asthof five 
or six years after the death of his father. 
They have since moved to a city in Pome- 
rania. 

' ' The pastor triumphed over me, and I 
had to leave him his triumph. I could not 
do otherwise than acknowledge myself 
beaten, at least as regarded the proofs of 
what I had asserted. So we began to talk 
of other things till I said, as if suddenly re- 
minded of the circumstance again: — 

" 'It strikes me that we could easily get 
light on the question we have been disput- 
ing by asking Philip Bonsart himself.' 

" 'Philip Bonsart himself !' said the pas- 
tor, in astonishment. 

" 'Why not? Will he make a secret of 
it ? I do not see any objection, whatever. 
Did he have any reason at the time to keep 
his marriage secret?' 

" 'You still persist in talking of this 
marriage. ' 

" ' I persist in it. But I mean that if he 
then had reasons for keeping it secret, they 
cannot surely have any force now, after all 
these years. Where is Philip Bonsart? 
Get his address for me, and I will write to 
him, in the hope that my letter may find 
him among the living. ' 

" The pastor shook his head. ' What an 
obstinate man you are,' he said. ' But ' 

" ' That belongs to my trade,' I answered. 
' To get the exact length of a certain term 
of years or a correct date, a genealogist 



must climb walls on which he spies som9 
old inscriptions, descend into ancient tombs 
in which he may break his neck, clear 
musty parchment with acids which may 
make him blind, and submit to be turned 
out of doors by churlish householders, on 
whose windows he has discovered old es- 
cutcheons. In comparison with all this, 
what is the trouble of sending a letter to 
America?' 

" 'A dangerous trade,' said the pastor, 
laughing. 'But, unfortunately, I know 
of no one here who could give you Philip 
Bonsart's address. ' 

" 'No one? Only think; there must be 
men in the place with whom he associated 
when he was a young man. Who were his 
intimate friends?' 

"The pastor shook his head again. 

" 'You know of no on V I asked 

" 'No. If he left acquaintances here, as 
I do not doubt he did, still I am convinced 
that no one has kept up communication 
with him, or did for any length of time 
after his disappearance. He was pursued 
by warrants as I have heard. It would not 
have been advisable for any one to send let- 
ters to his address. He himself would not 
have thought it prudent to give his address 
to any one who might have betrayed him 
by mere thoughtlessness, even. ' 

" ' On the other side of the ocean he was 
certainly safe.' 

" 'Possibly. But here you will hardly 
be able to learn anything about him; you 
will have to go to his family in Pomerania, 
which, indeed,' he added, laughing, 'you 
are just the man to do, merely for the sake 
of confuting me. ' 

" ' Then I should first have to find out 
the name of the place in Pomerania where 
they live.' 

" « That,' said the pastor, ' will probably 
be easy. Your only landlady must know 
the name of the plaoe. ' 

" 'My landlady?' 

" 'Your landlady, old Frau Rose, was 
formerly house-maid at Asthof, and after 
she married the landlord of the Golden 
Duck, she always maintained — as it gives 
her great pleasure to say — the most friendly 
relations with the family of the proprietor, 



60 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



the Bonsarts. Her happiest recollections 
a:*e of her friendship with these people, 
and she likes to talk of them. You can get 
her to talk without running any of the 
risks which, as you say, you are accustomed 
to encounter so boldly in the pursuit of 
your researches. ' 

" I took leave of the clergyman and went 
home to see what Frau Rose would have to 
say. It was not necessary to play the gene- 
alogist with the little old gray-headed land- 
lady; a book of heraldry was beyond her 
comprehension, but it appeared perfectly 
natural to her that a sensible and experi- 
enced stranger of a thoughtful turn should 
listen with interest to everything she had to 
tell of the good old times when the Melroths 
and the Bonsarts lived at the manor-house 
of Asthof. 

" After I had talked with Frau Rose for a 
while in the sitting-room of the inn, by way 
of awakening her garrulity, she took me 
into her private parlor and refreshed me 
with tea and little pan-cakes while she was 
quenching my thirst for knowledge with the 
history of that noble house. The details 
she gave were mainly of a human and per- 
sonal interest, without any claim to his- 
toric importance. The pastor was right. 
She had been a housemaid of the Melroths; 
she had known Matilda and Elsie well. She 
told how much she had had to bear from 
little Elsie, who, as a child, had a peculiar 
talent for getting into all sorts of dangers, 
including that of being most mercilessly 
beaten by her playmate, Philip, the son of 
the steward, when she had teased and tyran- 
nized over him till the wild boy was wrought 
into fury. From other dangers, Frau Rose 
said, she was often rescued by the wild boy 
himself, and they had been constant com- 
panions even after Herr von Melroth had 
quarrelled with his steward, Philip's father, 
and Philip was no longer allowed to visit at 
the manor-house. And then Philip was 
sent to school, and Elsie grew more quiet 
and reserved, and was at length sent to a 
boarding-school. Some years after Herr 
von Melroth left the estate which his stew- 
ard had bought, and moved into the city. 

" * And Philip and Elsie forgot their child- 
ish fancy for each other ?' I asked. 



" 'No, indeed, sir; no, indeed,' said Frau 
Rose, significantly. 'No, sir, I do not 
think they forgot each other. They wrote 
letters which — why should I not tell you ? — 
which passed through my hands; and the 
schools to which they were sent were in the 
same place. I don't believe they forgot 
each other there, either. And then, after- 
ward, when Philip cut up such mad capers, 
and every one was talking about him and 
saying he had stirred up rebellion and what 
all, and that it would cost him his life 
if he were caught — even then I do not 
believe that Elsie forgot him; no, not even 
then !' 

" 1 What ! such a wild, crazy fellow ?' said 
I, incredulously. 

" Frau Rose shook her gray head mys- 
teriously. 

" 'Yes, that he was,' she said, 'that he 
was; but after all, as I have always said, and 
will until my dying day, he was a boy with 
a good, true, brave heart. I was still house- 
maid at Asthof, for when the Bonsarts 
moved in they kept me in the service, for 
they knew me, and knew they could rely 
upon me; so they kept me in the house, and 
it was as pleasant for me as before, for they 
were good, well-meaning people, and not at 
all haughty, though they were the masters 
now; and as for what people said, that Herr 
Bonsart, the father, you know, had taken 
advantage of Herr von Melroth so dishon- 
estly, until he had wronged him out of every- 
thing and could buy the estate — that I do 
not believe; people will talk, and they like 
to speak ill of their neighbors. And the 
Melroths — the Lord knows they never knew 
how to manage, and to squander their pro- 
perty was a lesson they had learned from 
their fathers and grandfathers. But what I 
was going to say — I was only a house-maid, 
and yet I know that if I had said, Herr 
Philip, I am in great distress, and I need 
some one to ride three miles for me this 
stormy night, and no one can go but you — 
I know that Herr Philip would have put on 
his hunting-boots and have gone for me. 
That was Herr Philip, sir; and now if you 

think he could have forgotten Elsie ' 

Frau Rose did not finish her sentence; 
she only indicated what she might have said 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



61 



by a funereal shake of the head and a very 
significant expression. 

" Then I said, suddenly, in a very differ- 
ent tone, which astonished Frau Rose not a 
little: 'Perhaps I know more of Philip 
Bonsart's later life than you do, my good 
woman ! I know about his flight as a rebel, 
of his return in the year 1852, and that he 
came home to be married to Elsie Melroth 
in the chapel at Asthof.' 

" ' Ah !' cried Frau Rose, her round, good- 
natured eyes starting out in astonishment; 
' ah, you — you know that ?' 

" ' I know it, Frau Rose.' 

"'In Heaven's name, then, you know 
more of the matter than I do, though I 
could have told you the most of it. Then 
they were really married in the chapel? 
You have found that out ? Really, I have 
never been sure about it; and, least of all, 
did I ever dream that a strange gentleman 
would come and tell me that. You know 
it?' 

" ' I know it,' I said, ' for I helped him 
over the ocean; I got a pass for him and his 
young wife, who, however, did not use it.' 

"'No,' answered Frau Rose, in excite- 
ment, ' she did not use any pass. She did 
not cross the ocean with him, that I can as- 
sure you of. But she was here to be mar- 
ried to him, and she stayed here — here in 
my house, up stairs in the attic-room that 
looks out on the garden; I kept her there 
three nights. And Philip came and spent 
a great deal of time with her, and they 
made no secret of it to me, that they were 
to be married in the chapel late in the eve- 
ning, when every one was asleep, and that 
it must be kept a perfect secret, not only 
because Elsie's father was not to know any- 
thing about it, but also because not a soul 
must know that Philip was here in the coun- 
try. They made no secret of it to me, that 
is, Herr Philip did not, for I had taken care 
of his letters so long behind his father's 
back, and he knew me; and knew that he 
could rely upon Lisette Rose, and so he had 
brought Fraulein Elsie to me; he brought 
her from W. one evening in the twilight, in 
a one-horse carriage, and I took her up to 
the attic-chamber, as I told you, and waited 
on her as well as I could, and carried up 



everything to her that she could wish, I my- 
self, all alone; for why ? She was the child of 
my old master, and she had grown so hand- 
some, so tall and handsome, I should hardly 
have known her, and though she was spar- 
ing of her words, and cold and short in 
what she said, I was sorry for her; for I saw 
very well, in spite of her pride and her 
cool manner, that her heart was not at ease 
about the matter, and more than once when 
I went up I saw that she had been weeping, 
and I knew how one must feel to go away 
from one's father against his will, and go 
over the sea into a strange world, and be 
married so quietly at night, as if it were 
something to be ashamed of, and to have 
no bridal day before all the people, and no 
wedding dress, no wreath, and no veil, but 
go at night into the church in a dark-blue 
travelling dress of alpaca, and a common 
hat, and then right away on the journey in 
a stage and all that — one of us can see how 
any one must feel, sir, and I, for my part, 
I would never have done it, never, even if 
Rose, my dear departed husband, had 
wanted me to; I should have said to him: 
No, Rose, I will do much for you, very 
much, but not this; no, not this; but Rose, 
he would not have asked it, for he was a 
good, kind-hearted man.' 

"Frau Rose raised the corner of her 
handkerchief to her eyes, smoothed her hair 
back from her forehead, and, gazing at the 
flame of the lamp, fell into a revery. 

"'But now tell me,' I asked, after a 
pause, ' why did not the young lady cross 
the ocean with him after they were married ?' 

"Frau Rose shrugged her shoulders. 

" ' If you were so intimate with him, did 
he not write to you himself, or let you 
know in some other way how the affair 
turned out?' she said, throwing a half -dis- 
trustful glance at me. 

" ' No,' I answered, ' I had prudently for- 
bidden him to communicate any longer 
with me. I myself was not then in the best 
odor with the police, you must know, and 
letters to people once registered in the black 
book might in those days have been very 
easily read by eyes for which they were not 
intended.' 

" ' So, so,' nodded Frau Rose, knowingly. 



C2 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



' Ob, yes, that is easily understood. And 
so you do not know what happened after- 
ward, and why she did not go with him ?' 

' 1 1 1 know nothing of all that, Frau Rose. 
I never heard about it. When they were 
once married, I think she ought to have 
gone with him, don't you ? For where the 
husband is ' 

"'Once married?' said Frau Rose, 
thoughtfully. 'But were they? I never 
was sure about it. ' 

" 'Do you doubt it?' 

'"Certainly I doubt it. For, you see, 
this was the way of it; Philip told me every- 
thing, and I have often thought of it since, 
and think of it too often now to have for- 
gotten it. This was the way of it: there 
was a young chaplain with our pastor then 
— afterward he was pastor himself — Herr 
Chaplain Heimdal, but he went away to the 
Catholic Church in Hamburg, and he died 
of cholera when it was there three years 
ago. And this young clergyman was a 
friend of Herr Philip; they used to hunt 
together, and Herr Philip had coaxed his 
father, who would not let any one hunt in 
the park at Asthof, to give the chaplain per- 
mission; and, beside that, they had been 
together a great deal, and were great friends; 
they had been at school together. And so 
it happened that the chaplain had promised 
to many Elsie Melroth and Herr Philip 
secretly. It was to be in the chapel at 
Asthof, very late in the evening, when there 
was no one about. And then they had two 
witnesses, old Grundmeyer, who, even then, 
hardly had the use of his senses, and now 
has grown very childish, and Stephen Elms, 
Herr Bonsart's groom, a crafty fellow that 
Herr Philip was going to take away with 
Mm. He had gone to his father's to put 
his affairs in order and take leave of his 
friends and relatives. He was to come back 
the tnird evening, and then they were to be 
married, and leave here at daybreak. 

" ' I remember, as if it had happened to- 
day, how everything was arranged and pre- 
pared; and then one evening, it was about 
six o'clock; it was quite dark, for it was a 
gloomy, rainy day, and the wind blew fear- 
fully around the house, and Rose, he had a 
sore throat then — he suffered so much with it, 



I the poor fellow — Rose had gone to bed; and 
I a gentleman came into the house, a young 
gentleman, just as if the storm had blown 
him in; he looked wet and dirty, and tired 
to death, as if he had come a long distance 
through the storm; and before I had scarcely 
caught a glimpse of him, he was beside me, 
as I was standing in the kitchen door with 
the lamp, and calling to the servant to shut 
the back door that goes into the garden, be- 
cause the wind would blow out my lamp; 
and the gentleman said, panting, and in a 
half -whisper, "Madam," said he, "I have 
learned at the manor-house that Herr Philip 
Bonsart must be here in the Golden Duck; 
pray take me to him. I know that he is 
here, and he is my friend. I beg of you, 
take me to him at once." I looked at the 
man, and did not know what to do, for it 
was nothing to strangers, you know, that 
Herr Philip was in my house, and that he 
had come back and was here in the country, 
no one was to know that. So I looked at 
the young gentleman and thought — he looks 
honest, to be sure. And then he said 
again, so beseechingly, "I beg of you, take 
me to him. I am his friend, and have some- 
thing of the greatest importance to say to 
him; something that he must know this very 
hour, and I have come out from H. for that 
alone, madam." So I made up my mind, 
and I took him up stairs and showed him 
the door; and he knocked, and then he dis- 
appeared, and I came back with my lamp, 
and heard and saw nothing more for per- 
haps an hour, and what passed between the 
three I do not know.' 

" ' Could you describe this young man to 
me, Frau Rose ?' I asked. 

"'Describe the young man?' she said, 
looking up, ' I think he must have been a 
handsome man when he was in dry clothes 
and had not just come for miles over a dirty 
turnpike in a storm. He was tall and slen- 
der, and I think blonde, with a light full 
beard; and I think he looked to me as if he 
must be a forester, or something like that, 
though I cannot say why I thought so ' " 

"There is no doubt," here interrupted 
Ferdinand von Schott, "that it was the 
faithful Eckard, Emil Drausfeld, who came 
to warn them." 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



63 



"From all that you have told me," an- 
swered Herr Groebler, with a resigned and 
melancholy snrtle, "I think it must have 
been the faithful Eckard, whom you had 
sent to warn them against a faithful officer 
striving to fulfil his official obligations, Herr 
von Schott!" 

"Certainly; but now go on, Groebler," 
said Ferdinand, turning a face of suspense 
toward the faithful officer. 

"Frau Rose," he answered, "soon fin- 
ished her story. The gentleman remained 
at least an hour with Philip Bonsart and 
Elsie Melroth. Then Frau Rose heard 
them all three coming down the stairs. To 
light them out, she stepped with her lamp 
from the kitchen to the door. She saw El- 
sie going out into the night between the 
two young men, with slow and tottering 
steps. She looked after them and saw them 
stop outside, and Philip, talking excitedly to 
her, just as if he were trying angrily to re- 
move some doubt or win some promise 
from her, or overcome some opposition. 
The stranger stood by without saying a 
word. And then they went on* on into the 
darkening night and the storm, until they 
became only three black shadows to Frau 
Rose, and at length disappeared in the shad- 
ows cast by the houses in the lonesome vil- 
lage street. After a full hour they returned, 
but not all. Only Fraulein Elsie von Mel- 
roth and the stranger returned. Philip 
Bonsart had probably remained at his fa- 
ther's to make preparations for his journey; 
this was Frau Rose's first thought, though 
it seemed strange that he should not at least 
have accompanied his young wife back to 
the Golden Duck, but should have left that 
for a stranger to do. Elsie went to her 
room, and the stranger took lodging for the 
night. She did not see Fraulein Elsie again 
that evening, nor in the morning. At early 
dawn, the stranger came down and sent a 
servant for a carriage; then he took break- 
fast and called for his bill, and Fraulein El- 
sie and Rose got up to make it out, and 
the servant brought it in. The stranger paid 
it, and when the carriage came — Frau Rose 
had in the meantime made herself presenta- 
ble in morning costume — then the stranger 
sent up for Fraulein Elsie's baggage, and 



brought her down himself, and she was 
closely veiled, and bowed to Frau Rose and 
waved her hand in farewell, and then the 
young man helped her into the carriage and 
they drove away to W. , where she had come 
from a short time before— not to Hamburg 
or Bremen with Philip Bonsart, as it had 
been designed. 

"That," said Herr Groebler, in conclu- 
sion, "was Frau Rose's story, to which I 
succeeded in getting only a few unimport- 
ant additions. The driver said when he 
came back, that he had driven them to the 
stage in W., and that they had taken seats 
for H., where Elsie must have gone back to 
her father's as if she had just returned from 
the visit to her friend. Frau Rose had never 
seen anything more of Philip Bonsart; the 
groom, who was to have been a witness at 
the marriage, had been seen at Asthof the 
next day, after returning from his father's, 
and then he, too, had disappeared. He 
must have accompanied or followed Philip. 
On the second day after Elsie's departure, 
the chaplain appeared at the Golden Duck 
and took his early glass with some guests, 
and as he was going away he secretly handed 
Frau Rose a little article folded in a paper, 
and whispered — 

" 4 It belongs to Fraulein von Melroth; she 
left it lying on the sofa. But send it to her 
so that it may not fall into the hands of 
some one else in the family and betray her. 
It must not come from here, from Asthof. 
Have it sent from W., by the stage; or give 
it to the messenger there — that will be best.' 
The young clergyman whispered these words 
to Frau Rose, and was about to go away; 
but she held him by the arm, thinking that 
she, who had waited on Elsie Melroth for 
days, had kept their secret for the two young 
people, and to whom Philip had told every- 
thing — that she deserved a little confidence 
from the chaplain, too, as to what had Hap- 
pened, why the young people had not gone 
away together after the chaplain had married 
them, and why the marriage had been has- 
tened so. Whereupon the clergyman had 
answered only with exclamations of anger 
that Philip had been so thoughtless as to talk 
of a secret marriage, which must cost him, 
the chaplain, his position if it should become 



64 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



known; nothing had come of the intended 
marriage; Philip had been warned that police 
officers were on the way to Asthof — Frau 
Rose did not imagine," threw in Herr Groeb- 
ler, " that I could testify to the truth of this 
part of her story— Philip had been obliged 
to take himself off at once, to go on board a 
ship, so as not to find his way beset by the 
police, even in Hamburg. With this, the 
chaplain had gone away in anger, and all 
that Frau Rose could learn afterward of that 
occurrence and of Philip Bonsart, was as 
good as nothing; little could be learned from 
the family at Asthof, for they did not like 
to speak of Philip — nothing but that he was 
in North America, that he had been in a 
good many kinds of business, seeming to be 
fickle and unsteady, but that he seemed to 
be getting along well; afterward the Bon- 
sarts had left Asthof, the father having died 
about seven years ago." 

"So these are your discoveries, Herr 
Groebler," said Ferdinand, in a tone ex- 
pressive of anything but satisfaction with 
the results of Herr Groebler's journey. 

" These are my discoveries," he answered. 
" Will you allow me, before we go any far- 
ther, to take one of these cigars, and have 
some sort of fluid brought, so that I may 
moisten my organs of speech, which have 
been somewhat severely taxed?" 

" Oh, pardon me for not thinking of it," 
said Ferdinand. " My interest in your re- 
port was to blame for it." 

He sprang up and pulled a bell. 

" Will you have red or white ?" 

"If it is not all the same to you — if you 
have only one kind at hand, then it's all the 
same to me; I drink both. But if it is all 
the same to you, then it's not all the same 
to me; I prefer red. Red is the wine of 
temperate people." 

Ferdinand smiled, and, by ordering the 
servant to bring some red wine, indicated 
that it was all the same to him. 

Both were silent for a while, until Herr 
Groebler had emptied a glass of the wine, 
and then leaned back in his chair and sent 
up a few clouds of smoke from his cigar. 

"Those are your discoveries," repeated 
Ferdinand, at length, "and if we sum 
them up we shall arrive at the result that 



we are no farther on than we were before. 
There is no record of the marriage, and 
there seems never to have been any. Frau 
Rose had it from Philip's own mouth that it 
was to take place, and that the preparations 
were all made. That, indeed, is a stronger 
evidence than I can give from what Emil 
Drausfeld told me. But Frau Rose was 
not a witness of the ceremony. Thus we 
have not a single witness. An old man was 
to have been one, and he is now childish; a 
groom, and he went over the ocean with 
Philip Bonsart, and probably has been en- 
tirely lost sight of. Moreover, it is a ques- 
tion whether this groom really did serve as 
a witness. He seems to have been absent 
at the time of the marriage, which was a 
day sooner than was first intended, and 
Emil Drausfeld seems to have taken his 
place." 

" So it appears," said Herr Groebler. 
"And Emil Drausfeld is dead." 
"Ah! dead? The forester Drausfeld 
dead ?" 

"I returned yesterday from Vellinghaus 
forest." 

"And you did not find him?" 

" I found him — but dumb, silenced for- 
ever, and a broken-hearted widow, and cry- 
ing children." 

" That is bad, bad for our business." 

"That it is, Herr Groebler." 

" But the letters that were sent to Draus- 
feld; did the widow " 

" The widow could not give them to me, 
for they were not there." 

"Pest!" ejaculated Herr Groebler, be- 
tween his closed teeth; "then we are almost 
at the end of our string. I should think 
we were at the end. What do you think ?" 

Ferdinand took his glass, which was still 
full, held it against the light, and looked 
into it, as if he could read an answer to the 
question in the purple blood of the vine. 

" And I must confess to you," continued 
Herr Groebler, after a pause, "that the af- 
fair seems doubtful now to me " 

" The affair ? What affair ?" 

" The marriage." 

" Ah ! yon doubt " 

"Yes. It is clear that the program of 
this secret marriage, which was first fixed 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



65 



for the next day, was disturbed. You sent 
Emil Drausfeld to warn them, and Philip 
Bonsart heeded the warning, and was up 
and away that night, which was very sensi- 
ble of him, for on the next morning I had 
made arrangements to have all the roads 
leading from Asthof watched by some of 
my people. He went the evening before, 
whether as a married man or not, I do not 
know, but I think it doubtful." 

"But did not Frau Rose tell you that 
they went away late in the evening, and 
stayed an hour or more, and did not the 
chaplain admit that they were with him? 
Why should they have gone to him if not 
to have the ceremony performed at once ?" 

Herr Groebler shook his head. 

"Then would not the young lady have 
gone with her husband ? Or, if she shrank 
from the fatigues and dangers of a sudden 
flight, or feared that she would be a hin- 
drance to him, would she not have followed 
him soon after over the ocean?" 

"I am convinced," answered Ferdinand, 
"that Philip Bonsart, who had come from 
America for this very purpose, had made 
that long journey, so dangerous to him, for 
no other reason, would not have gone away 
again after the preparations were all made, 
without having accomplished his purpose. 
He was a passionate, energetic, strong- 
willed fellow. He was not so timid as to 
be frightened by Emil Drausfeld's warning, 
so as to lose his head and rush away with- 
out knowing what he was about. He must 
have kept in mind the object of his coming, 
and have made it his first business to carry 
out what he had been so energetically striv- 
ing for." 

"But the lady," said Herr Groebler, after 
a pause; "the young lady! You do not 
take her into account. It sometimes hap- 
pens that young ladies, too, have wills and 
energy of their own. I think that such an 
one might not have found this quiet ' aside' 
as much to her taste as the brilliant drama- 
tic effect of a public wedding; and that she, 
if she must run, would — let him run ! The 
chaplain, too, denied to Frau Rose that the 
marriage had taken place " 

"Not expressly, it seems. And if he 
did, what of that ? He could not do other- 



wise than deny it?" said Ferdinand, warmly. 
Herr Groebler knit his brows, and looked 
as sharp as if he were inwardly cutting the 
matter into infinitesimally small pieces. 
Then he took a long breath, drained his 
glass, and, putting his hand into his breast- 
pocket, said: 

"Here you have all that I have brought 
back from the journey — two keepsakes, one 
of Frau Rose, the other of Fraulein von 
Melroth." 

He handed Ferdinand a folded slip of 
paper and a very small parcel. The first 
was the address of Philip Bonsart's rela- 
tives, who lived in a small town in Pomer- 
ania. The parcel contained a small locket 
with some dark hair in it, apparently of 
very little value. 

"The address," said Herr Groebler, "I 
obtained from Frau Rose. The locket is 
what the chaplain gave her as having been 
lost by Fraulein von Melroth. You will 
probably," he added, with a slight mocking 
smile that looked a little like a nervous 
quiver of distress, "you will probably re- 
ceive the thanks of the princess if you re- 
store it to her." 

Ferdinand looked at it a moment in si- 
lence. " The landlady of the Golden Duck 
gave it to you?" 

" She gave it to me when I told her that I 
could have it delivered to the princess, and 
would be very discreet about it." 

" Then she knew the later life of Fraulein 
Elsie von Melroth?" 

" She knew it; she had heard that Frau- 
lein Elsie had bewitched a prince, and had 
been raised to a throne, but only as a rumor. 
She did not know the name of the prince." 

"And now," began Herr Groebler again, 
after a pause, "you have a circumstantial 
account of my journey, and I suppose I 
may withdraw. My wife's wrath is probably 
over by this time, and I can betake myself 
to my domestic hearth, and await your far- 
ther pleasure." 

He was about to rise, but Ferdinand, who 
had risen and began to walk up and down 
the room, pressed him down again into his 
chair and said : 

" You must, of course, be tired, and in 
need of rest, and I will not keep you any 



66 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



longer, only for a few moments, just for a 
question or two. First, what would you do 
now, Herr Groebler?" 

Herr Groebler took on the sharp expres- 
sion again, and, raising his glass, looked at 
it as if trying to cut it in pieces. Then 
he said, thoughtfully — ■ 

' ' I would first put a question to myself, 
which must be a little difficult to attack. 
For men in general are not inclined to trou- 
ble themselves with such a question. It is 
a little distasteful, a little heretical. That 
is, in general. In our case it would not be 
so, but you would be no more than wise " 

"Well, out with this great question. 
What is it ?" 

" It is: Do I believe, or do I know ? And I 
should act according to the answer I should 
be obliged to make. Exactly in accordance 
with it." 

"That is to say?" asked Ferdinand, stop- 
ping before him. 

" That is to say: in case you must give 
this answer — and I think it will be your 
answer, as it would be that of most men 
who are honest with themselves — in case 
you must say to yourself: I only believe, 
then let this matter drop; I have failed to. 
find living evidence, and you have failed to 
find written evidence. Let it drop; and say 
to yourself that it is too difficult a task to 
find proofs for things we only believe — so 
hard for a human brain that many, originally 
sound, have been wrought to madness in 
the vain attempt !" 

"And if I can give myself the answer: 
I know — what then ?" 

"If you can give that answer, then — 
why, then, g) on with your search. I am at 
your commind. If you want to send me to 
America, to get upon the track of this Philip 
Bonsart — as we have the address of his rela- 
tives, we may succeed in finding him and 
getting his secret from him — well, I have 
nothing to say against it. I will even go 
across the ocean, if that is your wish. I 
have long had a desire to get a sight of that 
wonderful world over there." 

Ferdinand nodded. 

"It would certainly be the best, the very 
best plan," he said. " But it would cost 
a great deal of money." 



" It would cost money," said Herr Groel- 
ler. 

"And I am not rich enough, " said Fer- 
dinand, with a sigh. 

"Then," said Herr Groebler, "we must 
hope that your self-examination will lead 
you to the conclusion: I only believe, and 
to the determination to leave the matter with 
the Lord. Then we shall not have to fret 
because we are not rich enough to afford a 
little trip to America. So good evening, 
Herr von Schott." 

Ferdinand offered his hand with the 
words, " How shall I thank you ?" His visi- 
tor pressed it with unwonted cordiality, and 
left him alone. 

Herr Groebler's advice was good. It 
certainly was. Ferdinand said so to himself 
more than once as he walked back and forth 
in the lonesome room. If he knew, if it 
were an incontrovertible fact to his deepest 
convictions, the proofs of which he was 
seeking, then he could go on searching and 
investigating with some prospect of success. 
For every event leaves traces behind it 
which may at last be discovered, which 
may at last be brought to light by a firm, 
persistent will. 

But if he only believed, if he must admit 
to himself that he might be in error, that 
his entire chain of evidence might be but 
cobwebs of the brain, mere illusions of an 
imagination grown morbid by constant 
brooding over the same subject, the decep- 
tions of little coincidences which he had 
caught up and interpreted too eagerly — then 
it were better to give up the investigation in 
which he had been so unsuccessful, in which 
everything seemed to conspire against him, 
in which a demoniac fatality seemed to have 
carried away, killed, annihilated everything 
that could have thrown light on the subject ! 

And so he took counsel of himself, seek- 
ing to weigh everything as coolly, as quietly, 
as impartially as possible. But tli3 result 
of all his reflection was an aspect of the case 
of which Herr Groebler had not thought, 
something that could neither restrain him 
from farther search nor encourage him in it. 
He did not merely believe, and yet he did 
not venture to say he knew. He believed he 
.knew. His conviction did not proceed from 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



07 



the facts he could cite; there was nothing 
incontrovertible in the evidence -which he 
now summoned up anew; but there was 
something in his heart and in his soul that 
would not release him from those facts and 
evidences. It was this something in his 
heart, partly clear and definite, partly dark 
and strange to his own consciousness, that 
chained him irrevocably to the steps of this 
proud Elsie von Melroth, this Princess of 
Achsenstein, that lay upon him like a yoke 
he could not cast off, like a curse of destiny, 
and forced him to track her steps, from the 
moment when her path had first crossed his. 

We will now turn back a little and relate 
the events in his life, now passing through 
his mind, in this solitary hour, when, in ac- 
cordance with Grbebler's advice, he called 
himself to account and set them in order be- 
fore him. 



CHAPTER XI. 

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 

Without meeting any serious difficulties 
Ferdinand von Schott had carried out the 
plan of life he had cherished in his youth 
when we saw him preparing for the asses- 
sor's examination. After leaving H., and 
passing that examination, he had been sta- 
tioned in several cities as attache, as secre- 
tary, and as deputy of the ambassador, had 
gained the title of secretary of legation and 
was expecting soon to be appointed coun- 
sellor of the embassy, when a heavy stroke 
fell upon him, crushing his hopes and 
changing the whole course of his life. This 
was the sudden death of his cousin, Johann 
Heinrich Schott, the banker, whose nearest 
relative was Captain Alexander Schott, the 
only son of his dead brother. But the 
banker had never been very strongly attach- 
ed to Alexander's father. Even as boys 
they had never got on well together. The 
young soldier and officer had been overbear- 



ing toward the young clerk; and Johann 
Heinrich, whose quiet and reticent, but 
ambitious spirit by no means yielded to the 
arrogant claims of his spurred and epaulet- 
ted brother, had never forgotten it. He 
had, therefore, clung the more closely to his 
more distant relatives. Colonel von Schott, 
who had been ennobled, had always treated 
the active and business-like young burgher 
with fatherly affection and care. After the 
death of Johann Heinrich's father, he had 
taken the boy and his mother into his own 
family. It was natural, therefore, that the 
banker should regard himself as a member 
of his uncle's family and should look upon 
the children, Ferdinand and Adele, almost 
as his own. Their mother had died young, 
and Johann Heinrich's mother had supplied 
her place to them; he himself, when he was 
a young man, had shared their plays; and 
afterward, when he had become independ- 
ent, they had always clung to him as their 
nearest and best-loved relative. So it had 
seemed a matter of course when their fa- 
ther, the colonel, died without leaving them 
anything that Johann Heinrich, who had 
been remarkably successful in his business, 
should care for the two children and treat 
them as if he had tacitly adopted them. 
Adele lived with a relative of her mother, 
and the banker supplied her with all she 
needed for her personal expenses. Fer- 
dinand finished his studies at his cousin's 
expense, and was then provided with the 
necessary funds for entering upon the career 
he had chosen. It was also understood, 
from repeated intimations of the banker, 
that Ferdinand and Adele would be his 
principal heirs. 

TJiis state of affairs was changed at a sin- 
gle stroke by a most unexpected event. 
Death surprised the banker before he had 
carried out his intention of making a will; 
and accordingly his property, valued at 
over one hundred thousand thalers, fell to 
the heir of his nephew Alexander, who had 
died, leaving a daughter, Irene. Ferdinand 
and Adele received nothing. 

Ferdinand saw only too well that his 
career in his chosen profession was at an 
end. He had not advanced far enough to 
be independent of his cousin's help; his 



68 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



salary was too small to cover Ms expenses 
in the capitals to which he was assigned, 
where the cost of living was generally high. 
Moreover, he was now the only support of 
his sister. To get along by practicing nig- 
gardly economy, leaving Adele to provide 
for herself in some servile position — that 
might have been possible to some, but not 
to him. It was contrary to his education 
and his nature. 

The disposition to spare and save, to 
hoard the pennies, and grow rich by econ- 
omy, is not a tendency that shows itself 
spontaneously; it is an inheritance, formed 
and developed by the steady practice of 
preceding generations. In the Schott fam- 
ily no such practice had ever prevailed; no 
such hereditary talent had ever been de- 
veloped. Ferdinand saw at once that the 
only thing for him to do was to leave Flor- 
ence, where he then was, and seek some po- 
sition in his own country, where he would 
be relieved from the expenses inseparable 
from his present position. 

He had taken the initial steps toward a 
change, and had applied to the ambassador 
for temporary leave of absence, when, one 
day, as he entered the ambassador's rooms, 
he found two strangers, a gentleman and 
lady, the sight of whom called into requisi- 
tion all the self-control his profession had 
taught him in order to conceal his embar- 
rassment. The minister introduced the 
strangers as his highness, the Prince of 
Achsenstein, and her highness, the Princess. 

The princess was Elsie von Melroth. 

The Prince of Achsenstein was a man over 
sixty. His appearance was by no means 
prepossessing. He was scarcely of medium 
height and was thin and bony. His short 
neck carried a head in perfect harmony 
with his form; it looked as if a strong pres- 
sure had been applied to the top of the skull 
in childhood, which had extended the fea- 
tures permanently in breadth; the forehead 
was broad and low, the nose broad and 
short, the mouth broad and ugly, the chin 
broad and stumpy; the round and promi- 
nent gray eyes had been forced far apart 
by the pressure. This general tendency to 
divorce of the two sides of the head, was 
vainly resisted by the thin gray locks 



brushed together to a comb on the top of 
the head. But they did their best to add to 
the general oddity of the prince's appear- 
ance; and the effect was still farther height- 
ened by the- unpleasant hoarseness of his 
voice. He talked very much and very 
rapidly, passing frequently from one lan- 
guage to another, French, English, Italian, 
evidently imagining that he used them all 
with equal fluency and skill, and, in fact, 
speaking in all with the same dreadful accent 
and the same indifference to grammatical 
forms. The ugliness of his appearance, 
which bore the manifest stamp of vulgarity, 
was heightened in Ferdinand's eyes by the 
great number of ribands of various orders 
which he wore; a whole millinery shop must 
have been plundered to supply them. 

A few minutes' observation was enough to 
show that Elsie, notwithstanding exalted 
rank and polyglot culture and honorary 
ribands, had sold herself ! 

And Elsie herself — she seemed to have 
grown taller and more beautiful, more daz- 
zlingly beautiful; she seemed to him to be 
surrounded by a luminous splendor, but 
unapproachable, with the cold repose of a 
marble statue. She bowed her head but 
slightly as Ferdinand was presented; he 
would have known beforehand that she 
would meet him so — so stiff and cold, so 
armed against everything that might have 
betrayed her to speak a word of the past, 
or even express surprise by a look; he 
could have imagined this haughty air; he 
would have painted it just so, if he had 
thought beforehand that he should ineefc 
her suddenly — this noble Princess of Ach- 
senstein. And yet it gave him a keen pang, 
a feeling of terrible humiliation, as an in- 
tentional affront, that she did not utter a 
single syllable in acknowledgment of their 
former acquaintance, and, without looking 
at ln'm again, turned away and continued 
the conversation with the wife of the am 
bassador, which had been interrupted by 
his entrance. 

He had seated himself, and took part in 
the conversation only when the ambassador 
appealed to him. He feared to betray the 
convulsive beating of his heart by the 
trembling of his voice. 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



C9 



The strangers remained * for some time. 
When Prince Achsenstein had once begun 
to talk, the stream of his thoughts, which 
was ready to flow at any moment, in every 
direction, did not soon become exhausted. 
It was a real pleasure to him to turn the 
lantern of his intellect in any direction 
where a flood of light might be needed. 
It would have been fortunate for his hearers 
if he could have spoken stenographically ; 
his desire for imparting information could 
have been sooner satisfied. 

At length the princess rose. As Ferdi- 
nand looked at her now, he saw that he ha d 
perhaps done her injustice. . Her face had 
more color than it had had before. He saw 
that she must have turned pale a little at 
his entrance. Turning to him now, she 
said, still coldly, but in a lower tone than 
she had used before : 

" Herr von Schott, you must not be sur- 
prised if I make a little more of our remote 
relationship here in Florence than may per- 
haps be agreeable to you, and tax your 
friendship for the help one needs in an en- 
tirely strange city. Will you give us your 
cousinly attention and assistance? Herr 
von Schott," she continued, turning to her 
husband, " is a cousin of my brother-in- 
law. " 

"Ah," said the prince, shaking Ferdi- 
nand's hand, with apparent cordiality, 
" that is exceedingly fortunate, exceedingly; 
happy meeting; I am delighted, highly 
delighted, indeed!" 

And then he turned again to the ambas- 
sador and finished his conversation, with 
the air of a man who has most nobly ful- 
filled a duty of politeness and need give no 
farther attention to the object of it, for 
which he no longer exists. 

At last they went. An almost impercepti- 
ble nod was Elsie's parting salutation to 
Ferdinand. The ambassador and his wife 
accompanied their guests to the outside 
steps. Ferdinand took advantage of their 
absence to disappear and escape the ques- 
tions he foresaw would be asked in regard 
to his relationship to the Princess of Ach- 
senstein. He wanted to be alone, with the 
storm of thoughts and feelings he had to 
contend with. 



In all these years the memory of Elsie 
had been alive in his heart. It had fas- 
tened itself there with a hundred tendrils. 
She had become the wife of Philip Bonsart, 
or had not; he had never had the heart to 
inquire. But she had not followed him to 
America. She had afterward become the 
wife of a prince, as rumor had long ago re- 
ported; perhaps Philip Bonsart was dead. 
At any rate, she had married a prince with 
whom she had become acquainted at a 
watering-place, where she had gone with 
her si~ter; the prince was an old man, who 
had persuaded her to join her youth and 
beauty to his decay, after he had buried 
two wives. Ferdinand had looked upon 
her love for her old playmate as an unalter- 
able fact, which he tried to forget; her mar- 
riage with the prince seemed to him a hate- 
ful crime; he had hated her for it, and then 
had tried to forget this hatred. 

And yet he had not forgotten her and had 
not hated her; he realized that he did not 
hate her by the angry resentment that now 
filled his heart; he realized it by the sudden 
storm that seemed to have stirred his soul 
to its very depths. 

This storm was too great to allow him to 
be in very great haste to respond to her in- 
vitation, and call upon her. Not until the 
second day after did he feel that he was 
master enough of himself to meet he* 
coolly and calmly — to meet her upon the 
only footing on which they could meet 
now, as perfect strangers, as if they had 
never seen each other before, but were 
drawn together by a kind of relationship; 
or perhaps as old acquaintances, who main- 
tain friendly relations on account of com- 
mon recollections, without taking any more 
interest in each other than either would 
take in a dozen other friends of youth. 

Elsie might decide; it should be as she 
wished; he would accommodate himself to 
whatever tone she chose to take; he would 
show her that he made no claims, that 
nothing in the world could be more a 
matter of indifference to him than the de- 
gree of graciousness with which her High- 
ness might choose to condescend to him. 

And so he went, and ascended, with a 
gloomy face and firm, quick steps, and yet 



70 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



■with a beating heart, the marble steps to 
the first story of a fine old palace, where 
the prince had taken apartments. He was 
received by a lackey in green livery, who 
requested him to wait and went to deliver 
his card; then a valet, in black, appeared 
and opened for him the door of a large 
parlor, partitioned with curtains. Ferdi- 
nand heard voices on the other side of the 
curtain, at the right, the voices of the 
prince and of Elsie. 

' ' You understand that I can take no far- 
ther notice of this relation," said the prince, 
who had evidently received the card; "be- 
side, as he is a Yon Schott, it would be 
wanting in tact to remind him of his burgher 
relatives; and it is only through them that 
he is connected with you." 

" What tender consideration !" said EHe, 
in a sarcastic tone. "No one asks you to 
take any notice of a relationship that re- 
minds you of sister-in-law with a burgher 
name — that is what makes you so exceed- 
ingly considerate ! The best way for you to 
save your own feelings would be to carry 
out your plan of joining the noblemen's 
club into which you were to be admitted 
to-day." 9 

"If you think so, I will do it," answered 
the prince, dryly. 

"I foresee," said Elsie, "that you will 
spend the greater part of your time there; 
meanwhile, I desire to enjoy the art- trea- 
sures of Florence; I came for that, and I need 
a guide; I do not want to be left to go about : 
alone while you are telling your hunting- 
stories in your club. Ilerr von Schott will 
do me that favor, and while I am talking : 
with him and arranging the program, you i 
would only disturb us !" : 

."So much the better," answered the '. 
prince, in a tone that indicated a slight shrug 
of the shoulders; "so much the better. \ 
Just as you think, child !" 

The voices were silent. Ferdinand ; 
thought less about the somewhat humiliat- ; 
ing role of an unpaid cicerone, which Elsie i 
was imposing upon him — he was accustomed ' 
to that, the nobility seeming to regard the < 
secretary of legation as appointed for that i 
purpose — than about the remarkable way in 
which Elsie seemed to treat her husband, 1 



It was evident that she ruled him, that he 
offered no resistance to her sway and was 
accustomed to obedience. 

When the valet came back into the salon, 
he requested Ferdinand to follow him. In 
the next room, through which the servant 
conducted him, he saw the remains of a 
breakfast which the lackey was just carrying 
away. He found Elsie in a boudoir back of 
this room, reclining on a sofa, apparently 
absorbed in a journal. The prince had 
obeyed her and disappeared. 

Although it was noon, Elsie was still in 
her morning toilet, in a morning dress . of 
white cashmere with blue facings and a blue 
cord at the waist; she looked more charm- 
ing in it than she had looked the day before 
in her elegant visiting costume. The years 
seemed to have taken nothing from her, but 
to have given her features more of soul and 
intellect. 

"This Italian newspaper," she said, 
throwing the journal aside, and motioning 
Ferdinand to a seat without looking at him, 
"this Italian is so easy to understand, and 
the poets are so difficult for me ! Why is 
that ? Or isn't it so with you ? You have 
been in Italy so long, that you must be able 
to use the language with perfect ease. Bat 
why do you not take a seat ?" 

"The poets," he answered, seating him 
self, a little puzzled at the extremely un- 
constrained manner in which she began the 
conversation, as if she had seen him but a 
few hours before, "the poets are hard to 
understand in any language. If the reason 
were not so obvious, because of the artistic 
form of their works — I should say it is be- 
cause they are accustomed to write of such 
an incomprehensible thing — the human 
heart." 

She nodded, and after a moment's pause, 
said, smiling: 

" That is true. It is hard to understand 
poets' hearts — that is, for us prosaic peo- 
ple. Indeed, we often cannot understand 
ourselves. Is the incomprehensible in us — 
what we often regard as unreasonable be- 
cause we cannot comprehend it — is it, after 
all, the best we have, the poetry in us?" 

" There is objection to such an interpreta- 
tion — at least, not for ladies, who are not 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



71 



expected to be self-critical. It would be 
harder for men to pass off their instincts and 
passions and the perverse things they do 
under the influence of them, for the poetry 
of their nature !" 

She raised her eyes to his with a search- 
ing glance, and a slight flush overspread her 
face; she seemed to suspect a slight reproach 
in the words. In a tone in which there was 
something hard and condemnatory, she an- 
swered: 

4 'Men should have no instincts and no 
passions. They should be clear-headed and 
self-conscious and able to control them- 
selves. Self-control is the beginning of all 
wisdom. Do you not think so ? You are a 
diplomatist ; it must be familiar to you. " 

"Yes, I understand that; I understood it 
before I became a diplomatist, and I shall 
hold fast to the principle when I leave the 
profession, as I shall very soon." 

" As you shall soon ? What do you mean 
by that?" 

" I shall enter some other profession." 

"Indeed! And why?" asked Elsie, ris- 
ing from her half -reclining position and look- 
ing at him in evident suspense. " Does 
not your position suit you? Is it not as 
pleasant as you could wish ? Do you, here 
in Florence, regret our foggy atmosphere ? 
Or has your profession failed to meet your 
expectations, as you once described them 
to me?" 

It was the first time that Elsie had men- 
tioned the past; it seemed as if she had 
been surprised into forgetting a determina- 
tion never to allude to it. 

"Not that I leave my position with the 
greatest regret, to go to handle dismal docu- 
ments at home there in our foggy atmo- 
sphere, as you say. You can understand 
with what feelings one must tear himself 
away from Italy, never to see it again. But 
what can I do? I make no secret of my 
reasons; the death of my cousin, the banker, 
has destroyed my prospects. I have to pro- 
vide for myself and my sister. To be a di- 
plomatist, it is necessary to have a rich 
cousin, or to be his heir." 

"Ah! I did not know that — I did not 
know that!" said Elsie, drawing a long 
breath and sitting more erect, while a re- 



markable pallor overspread her face, making 
it of a marble whiteness. " I did not know 
that !" she repeated again, with white lips. 

" Did not know what ? That my cousin 
is dead?" 

She did not answer. She looked at him 
with a peculiar fixed glance, and then drop- 
ped her eyes before his open gaze. 

It was singular. She who had just said 
that self-control was the beginning of all 
wisdom, now betrayed unmistakably that 
there was something in Ferdinand's infor- 
mation that affected her deeply. What 
could it be? Her sister's child was the 
banker's heiress. Why should that affect 
her so? How could she help it if Ferdi- 
nand had lost what her niece had gained ? 
There was nothing in that to shock her, 
nothing that could be humiliating or un- 
pleasant to her. Could he believe that she 
had so much personal sympathy for him, 
that his misfortune could affect her so deep- 
ly? It would be folly to think of such a 
thing. And yet what other explanation 
could there be for this strange emotion ? 

She looked at her rosy finger-nails as if 
questioning the little white spots upon them 
what her reply should be; then she looked 
at the floor again, as if to reflect on their ad- 
vice. At last she said, in a low voice, whose 
suppressed tremor did not escape Ferdi- 
nand's notice : 

"If the property of your cousin, which 
has fallen to my sister, is so necessary to 
you in your present circumstances — as I did 
not dream, then " 

"Oh, I beg your highness," interruptel 
Ferdinand, " do not think that I came to 
entertain you with these matters. You 
asked me a question, and I gave you a 
straightforward answer, as I saw no reason 
for not doing. Now, if you please, we will 
let the matter drop. I beg of you not to al- 
lude to it again. Any farther discussion of 
it would be most painful to me. " 

She was silent and seemed again engaged 
with the spots on her finger-nails. At 
length she said: 

"Why do you suddenly call me 'your 
highness?' you showed so much delicacy 
and tact in not doing so before. I beg of 
you, do not call me so, when we are alone." 



72 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



Ferdinand bowed. "As you prefer," lie 
said, surprised again. "You can under- 
stand that it conies a little hard to me," he 
added, and then colored at the words, which 
admitted of an offensive meaning, as well as 
of one quite the reverse. 

Elsie did not show how she took it; neither 
did she return to what she was saying when 
Ferdinand interrupted her. Having entirely 
regained her self-control, she began to talk 
of her intention to make her stay in Flor- 
ence as beneficial as possible in the way of 
self-culture, and to spend as much time as 
she could in studying the art-treasures of 
the beautiful city of the Arno. She counted 
upon Ferdinand's help; she could not rely 
upon her husband for any; thorough studies 
of things not merely to be talked of, but to 
be reflected upon and felt, were not in his 
line, as she said, with remarkable frankness. 
4 'The prince," she said, "has not been ac- 
customed for years, perhaps never in his 
life, to withdrawing into himself, only to go- 
ing out of himself, if the exiiression is ad- 
missible. " 

A wicked jest was at the end of Ferdi- 
nand's tongue. 

" If your time is not too much occupied," 
she continued, " I would like to ask you to 
be my cicerone, when you are in a mood to 
do a favor to an old acquaintance. May I 
count upon your services V s 

" I am at your command," answered Fer- 
dinand. " Only I would like to make the 
condition that you will actually command 
me, that you will tell me definitely when 
and where I can be of service to you. I 
shall then be sure of not coming at times 
when you are occupied with quite different 
things from excursions to art-galleries." 

"Indeed! you think my purpose is not 
very serious ?" 

"Oh, certainly; as serious as is usually 
the case with ladies in your position." 

" 'Ladies in my position," — that is to say, 
ladies accustomed to give way to every ca- 
price, and troubling themselves only with 
the externals of a brilliant but really hollow 
life— who, at the best, are themselves de- 
ceived with the idea that they are interested 
in something higher, but usually only as- 
sume such an interest to deceive the world 



or their admirers ! You are mistaken in me, 
Herrvon Schott!" 

"As to that, I have not expressed any 
opinion, nor formed any in my own mind; 
therefore, I cannot be mistaken." 

" Very well; it is wise to be slow in form- 
ing opinions. Then you will allow me to 
invite you to an excursion very soon?" 

Ferdinand bowed silently, and soon after 
took his leave in a peculiar mood. He 
could not conceal from himself that, not- 
withstanding all the studied coldness with 
which they treated each other, as if they 
had met here for the first time in the world, 
yet the old sparring tone, the old intellec- 
tual combat, had been resumed — that he 
would suffer by it now as intensely as he 
had enjoyed in his happy and confident 
youth, and that the end of the play would 
be that he would be defeated as he had 
been defeated before. He felt that he was 
a fool to expose himself to her witcheries, to 
court his defeat again. He knew that it 
would be the greatest good-fortune for him, 
if, when he got to his rooms, he should find 
his leave of absence awaiting him, and 
should then pack his trunks and be off. 
But he did not find it. And if he had 
found it, he would not have gone. Why 
not ? Did he himself understand why not ? 
No, he only felt that he was chained; the 
why and the how must belong to the incom- 
prehensible and unreasonable that Elsie had 
called the best in us and the poetry of life. 

And then he thought of the strange emo- 
tion Elsie had shown at what he had told 
her of his circumstances — an emotion which 
the proud princess either had not tried or 
had been unable to conceal. How was it 
to be explained? Ferdinand stopped in 
perplexity as he thought of it on his way 
home. Had the haughty woman, after all, 
so much sympathy for him, that the turn in 
his destiny affected her so powerfully ? Or 
did she feel humiliated at the thought that 
her sister had received what had been in- 
tended for him? It did not seem possible; 
and yet it must be o le of the two. 

If it were one of the two, then the extent 
of the emotion Ferdinand's information had 
produced was remarkable — the violence of 
the excitement whose expression he did not 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



cee, but winch the walls of the little room 
looked upon after the door had closed be- 
hind hiin. She sprang up and walked ex- 
citedly up and down the room. At times 
she stopped, and, resting her hand upon the 
back of a chair or the top of a table, looked 
fixedly with her white face toward some ob- 
ject on which her eye happened to rest, 
with half-open mouth, as if she were listen- 
ing in her distress for counsel from these 
dumb witnesses of her desperation. 

" There is nothing, nothing at all to be 
done; he is defrauded of his rights and 
must remain so," she whispered, at length. 
H Oh, that this man must come in my path 
again to tell me that ! This man, who has 
once before plunged me into a cruel strug- 
gle, whose influence first made me suspect 
that I was on a wrong path where I should 
never have allowed myself to be drawn, who 
even then began to gain the ascendancy 
over me, and who comes in my path again 
now, to compel me to confess to myself how 
despicable I have grown, how low I have 
fallen ! 

"And what can I do? Run away and 
escape him ? I cannot do that; O, my God ! 
I cannot do that, until I have succeeded in 
compensating him in some way for what he 
has lost, until I have found some way of 
atoning in part for my guilt, of keeping 
him in the profession he is about to re- 
nounce on account of his poverty !" 

She dropped into her chair and sat 
watching, with half-closed eyes, the strip of 
blue sky visible from her window, over 
which fleecy clouds were floating lightly, 
as if their careless movement had some 
comfort in it, and were saying: "Somen 
wander at the breath of fate, to reach at 
last the goal, unknown to them, and yet 
destined for them from eternity, and stead- 
fastly awaiting them in the far future." 



CHAPTER XII. 

FLORENTINE STUDIES. 

Ferdinand was surprised the next day at 
receiving a note adorned with a crown and 
a monogram, in blue and gold, containing a 
brief invitation from Elsie to accompany 
her the next day on a visit to one of the 
galleries. He appeared punctually at the 
time appointed; she met him with a quiet, 
cool friendliness, growing more animated 
only in talking of the works of art they 
went to see. Ferdinand soon found reason 
to say to himself, with some surprise, that 
she really seemed quite in earnest in her 
plan of self-culture by the study of the 
works of art in the famous city. She not 
only desired to visit all the galleries and 
churches, but she studied into details, and 
busied herself with the lives of the greatest 
artists, with the history of the finest works 
of architecture, and of the city, and asked 
many more questions than Ferdinand could 
answer. She gave her opinions and criti- 
cisms with so much frankness and decision 
that it was natural for Ferdinand to feel, 
after a few days, as if they were on the old 
footing — not that of admiring homage and 
deference to be paid by the one and gra- 
ciously received by the other, as a footing 
of equality between friends who do not 
scruple to differ and carry on conversational 
warfare in support of their opinions. He 
often told her, in answer to her questions, 
that she knew much more of the subject 
than he, that she was fitted to adorn the 
chair of a professor of the fine arte.; that 
without her he would have returned from 
the land of ideal art like a barbarian or an 
Englishman; that if she should delay her 
return till she had studied all Italy as thor- 
oughly, Germany would never have the 
good fortune of seeing again her most 
learned daughter. 

" You say all those things so sarcastically," 
was Elsie's answer to one of these remarks, 
" that it is plain enough you think a femi- 
nine head cannot hold all these things, and 
would do better not to attempt it; — to spare 
itself the fruitless task. " 

" Perhaps I might think so of a fem- 
inine head," answered Ferdinand. "But 



74 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



yours is not a feminine, it is a masculine 
head." 

" Is that a compliment or a reproach ?" 

"A compliment, undoubtedly. A being 
"with the head of a man and the heart of a 
woman, would certainly be a most perfect 
one." 

"But only when the head and heart are 
in unison; if they are at variance, there 
may be no creature more unhappy." 

"That is true. And they would very 
easily fall into discord, I am afraid. But 
what would you have ? Perfection in this 
miserable world must be paid for with 
wretchedness and sorrow." 

" And why must a masculine mind and a 
feminine heart easily fall into discord?" she 
asked. 

"Because the two have different needs 
and different standards. But if they are 
developed to equal strength, then any con- 
flict that may arise cannot be quieted, be- 
cause each is too strong to yield." 

Elsie nodded, without answering. After 
a pause, she said: 

* " It is true, the heart urges to action, and 
the mind criticises and vetoes. If the 
critic is as strong as the impulse to action, 
there must be a balance of forces, and 
nothing can be dose. To escape from such 
a dilemma," she added, smiling, "one 
would have to alternate — giving the heart 
full sway for a time, and then for a time 
yielding wholly to the control of the intel- 
lect." .. 

And you, princess, you live by that rule; 
for the present, you belong entirely to the 
intellect; when will it be the turn of the 

heart?" 

"Ah,"' she said, smiling sadly, "the 
heart tries every day to enter into its right; 
but, as I have said, the mind criticises and 
vetoes." 

"Then send him away — give him a fur- 
lough, and let him have a rest. I think 
he has been long enough in your service, 
and you ought to be willing to discharge 
him." 

"How mockingly you say all that! Is, 
then, a man wholly incapable of ideality 
enough to believe that a woman can really 
be serious, about serious things?" 



" Oh, certainly, when her age and circum- 
stances leave her nothing else to busy her- 
self with but serious things; then, cer- 
tainly." 

She shook her head. 

"But not otherwise? Otherwise, a wo- 
man is only coquetting with intellectual in- 
terests ? Well, I know that is the theory of 
men, And as they are all infallible, what 
can be said against it ? It is stupid, to be 
sure, and absurd. But has it ever been any 
objection to a theory that it was stupid and 
absurd ? But it will not help you any." 

"How should it help me?" 

" You only talk so to restrain my zeal for 
studying Florence in my own way, so that 
you may be released from your service as 
cicerone." 

"If you were not the Princess Achsen- 
stein, formerly Fraulein Elsie von Melroth, 
I should answer you by declaring that this 
service affords me the greatest pleasure. 
But as you " 

"But as I am Elsie von Melroth, you are 
too shrewd or too honest to say it, and I 
thank you for it." 

"Perhaps neither too shrewd nor too 
honest, but too proud." 

She threw a quick glance at him, as of 
surprise — not at all unpleasant surprise, or 
as if she were hurt. 

" Then I thank you still more," she said. 

"Why?" 

"Because I can build more on a man's 
pride than on his honesty." 

" If you will build on me the basis of 
your confidence is a matter of indifference 
to me. I am content if I can show you that 
it is well-grounded. " 

She dropped the conversation and turned 
to other things. But that she did place 
confidence in him with less and less reserve, 
Ferdinand could not but see, although he 
sought to avoid betraying the emotion with 
which it filled him. She did not try to 
conceal the estrangement between herself 
and the prince, or, rather, she made no 
secret of the symptoms of that estrange- 
ment, which, indeed, were exhibited far less 
by her than by the prince. It was evident, 
without very close observation or very great 
knowledge of men, that the prince had a 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



75 



; somewhat coarse and extremely vain and 
| violent nature, and when his vanity was 
I wounded, might be very dangerous and take 
; most unaccountable freaks. But it was also 
clear that nothing was farther from his in- 
tentions than to gain an ascendency for this 
coarser nature over Elsie's higher and finer 
one. In the beginning of their married 
life, he might, perhaps, as would have been 
no more than natural, have striven for such 
an ascendancy of his will and his ideas, and 
might, perhaps, have struggled for it. If 
this were the case, it was evident that he had 
been defeated in the struggle, that the re- 
sult had not been such as to flatter his van- 
ity. Hence, probably, his indifference, to- 
ward her. At least he let her alone, and 
not that only, but he seemed to have a cer- 
tain fear of her, to avoid her as a lively 
critic of his conduct, of his not always 
princely words, and acts, and tastes. 

When two differing natures are brought 
together and held together by any kind of 
tie, it is seldom that the lower nature yields 
to the influence of the higher; the higher 
usually sinks toward the level of the lower. 
Ia the relations between Elsie and the 
prince this was reversed; the lower nature 
• yielded to the force of the higher; but it 
showed, too, that it felt the force. He 
often alluded jestingly to "my little gov- 
erness," "our most royal auditor-in-chief , ' 
in a way that Ferdinand saw as mixed 
with some bitterness. Ferdinand often re- 
ceived the impression, too, that, in the 
marked, and often exaggerated courtesy 
shown him by the prince, there was a taint 
of bitterness; that he was gratifying a sort 
of revengeful spirit, by showing so openly 
and so often how well pleased he was that 
his wife had found a friend to relieve him 
of the duty of attendance. Elsie gave no 
indieation that she noticed this; Ferdinand 
noticed it and felt a sort of indignation at 
it; he felt it as a sort of personal insult, 
though he could not, or would not tell him- 
self exactly why. 

And as Elsie did not try to throw any dis- 
guise over the nature of her relations to her 
husband., she talked with him on many sub- 
jects with the frankness of a sister to a bro- 
ther. She seemed to take a peculiar satis- 



faction in humiliating her own pride by an 
apparent self-contempt — a kind of malicious 
pleasure, a certain triumph, in showing Fer- 
dinand her worst side, as if it were a grati- 
fication to her to let him see what a complete 
fool he had been in ever feeling any attach- 
ment or reverence toward her. Ferdinand 
did not at all understand this conduct. It 
was a very strange kind of malice, if she 
thought to humiliate him by ' accusing her- 
self; it indicated a wonderful self-conflict, 
almost morbidness. The explanation would 
have suggested itself that Elsie only found 
fault with herself in order to make Ferdi- 
nand contradict her and pay eloquent hom- 
age to her fine qualities. But that could 
not be the explanation ; for he never contra- 
dicted her in the least; the whole tone of 
their conversation made anything like hom- 
age or gallantry inadmissible. 

One day they had made an excursion to 
Fiesole. The princess was accompanied by 
a kind of court-lady, a quiet, unassuming 
creature, who never took part in the conver- 
sation without being directly spoken to. 
They mounted to the Ghurch of Sant Alles- 
sandro and the Franciscan cloister on the 
site of the old Acropolis. From a broad 
arched window they looked down over the 
picturesque court of the convent upon Flor- 
ence and the valley of the Arno. After a 
long pause, in which she had seemed ab- 
sorbed in the contemplation of the wonder- 
ful scene, Elsie said: 

4 ' What a strange charm there is in this 
scene — it is almost fearful ! I shall never 
forget it !" 

"Nor I, princess," said Ferdinand, with 
evident emotion. "Though I have often 
been here before and looked down on this 
same scene, yet the impression it has made 
on me to-day will never fade from my me- 
mory !" 

She threw at him a quick, sharp glance, 
that passed over his features like the con- 
vulsive flash of an expiring flame. 

" In what," she said, "does this powerful 
charm lie ? It cannot be in the mere nat- 
ural beauty of the scene, for there are views 
of greater beauty. It must be the charm 
of 'association, the consecration of histori- 
cal memories that rests upon the valley and 



70 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



the city. Strange, that the past can move 
us so, has such a poetic power over us !" 

"Do you call it strange ?" 

' * Is it not so? What real interest has it 
for us ? What superiority has the past over 
the present ? One is old misery and the 
other is new misery. That is all the differ- 
ence." 

Ferdinand shook his head. 

"What an idea!" he exclaimed. "Can 
you talk so, princess, you who are studying 
so zealously the art, the monuments of the 
past ? What are they but memorials of the 
intellectual development of men to freedom 
and beauty? what but footprints of the 
genius of humanity as it moves through the 
centuries, with ever firmer and more con- 
sciously sovereign tread ? What draws you 
here, if not the perception of this? His- 
tory is the picture of the conflicts and vic- 
tories of ideas, the great epic of the human 
race, and should there be no poetry in 
that?" 

She nodded and said, smilingly, "Well 
said. Go on and explain to me. " 

' ' Explain to you ! How ironically you 
say that ! Women, they say, always form 
their judgments from personal grounds. 
So look at it in a personal light. Imagine 
a man with a past full of ' old misery, ' full 
of intellectual struggle and soul-conflict — in 
a word, a man with a history. Would he 
not have a greater attraction for you, a 
greater charm, than a man without a his- 
tory ?" 

" Certainly; you are right and I am 
ashamed of my stupid remark," she an- 
swered. "You see now how thoughtlessly 
and superficially a woman judges — how il- 
logical she can be, and how limited, how 
hollow " 

"And," interrupted Ferdinand, "how 
mysterious, in being able to find enjoyment 
in such self-accusings." 

" Oh, yes, that is stupid, too," she said, 
in a tone of contempt. " Give me your 
arm; we must see the Church of Sant Al- 
lessandro." 

As they drove back to the city she did 
not speak. Ferdinand's eyes rested thought- 
fully on the valley, from which the hollow 
murmur of the great city began to reach 



their ears, while a light fog rose from thei j 
Arno, and spreading a thin veil over the] 
roofs and even the dome of the cathedral; 
and the tower of the Palazzo del Signoria, j 
on which the full glow of the sunset rested, 
took on a rosy splendor in the sunlight, so 
that the mighty building was transfigured 
with the crimson glory. 

" See," he said, "even the life of to-day, 
the 'new misery,' as you call it, is clothed 
with a rosy splendor. One has only to look 
and have an eye to see it." 

She looked full in the direction he indi- 
cated, but gazed with an absent air, as if 
her thoughts were far away from the scene. 

A powerful sympathy began to mingle 
with Ferdinand's feeling toward her. Her 
unsparing severity to herself was a riddle 
that constantly tormented him. With so 
earnest a character, this self-contempt must 
proceed from deep internal discord, from a 
conviction of failure in life through its own 
fault, from complete disgust at itself; and, 
moreover, it was evident that, in her zealous 
pursuit of mental culture, she was only 
seeking distraction, and forgetf ulness of her 
own thoughts. That Ferdinand's attach- 
ment to her was only made more intense by 
his sympathy, was natural. The longing to 
bring help to her in her helplessness acted 
upon his love like wind upon flame. A 
man wants to support, to help, and guide 
where he loves, and where he can do this, 
he loves from it alone. So long as she 
was the proud, cold Elsie, sufficient to her- 
self and in need of no one, his feelings to- 
ward her had something angry and hostile 
in them. Since she suffered, and accused 
herself so bitterly, even in her pride, his 
deepest and strongest feelings mingled with 
and intensified his attachment. 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



77 



CHAPTER XIII. 

KIDDLES. 

Although as day after day passed on in 
this way, Elsie seemed to have grown so ac- 
customed to her guide as to regard him as 
an indispensable necessity; still Ferdinand 
could not but acknowledge to himself that 
what he had longed for, to find for himself a 
place in her heart and soul- life, was a hope- 
less desire. Though she often spoke of her- 
self in a tone of contempt, it passed into a 
tone of the coldest mockery, if the conversa- 
tion turned upon sentimental and enthusias- 
tic friendships, upon heart-affairs and love. 

"Believe me," she said once, "every 
love-affair is a struggle for the mastery; 
what men call love is only the caprice result- 
ing from the most varied accidental motives, 
to gain complete sway over just this or that 
person and make him our slave. The first 
coquetries are the measures for finding out 
the strength of the enemy. Thereupon the 
weapons are crossed and the conflict begins; 
and it is conducted in the same way as the 
conflicts of parties and nations. The great- 
est anxiety of each side is to appear stronger 
than it is." 

"Stronger?" said Ferdinand; "I think 
they are wonderfully willing to confess their 
weakness toward the other side." 

" No, no ; they represent themselves as 
stronger — that is, better, nobler, more amia- 
ble, more intellectual, more ideal than they 
are. While each is so intent on deceiving 
the other, neither is shrewd enough to say 
to himself that the other must be engaged in 
the same game. How stupid that is ! And 
there they vie with each other in self-sacri- 
fice, generosity and sensibility. At length, 
they get wearied out and conclude an ar- 
mistice, and this time of suspension of hos- 
tilities is generally taken advantage of to 
have the marriage ceremony performed. 
Then the conflict begins afresh and continues 
until one party succeeds in vanquishing the 
other." 

" What a prosaic, skeptical, heartless view 
that is !" exclaimed Ferdinand. 

"Is it?" she asked. "It maybe. But 
it is a woman's opinion, the conviction that 
comes to her from her own consciousness. 



Men may have more heart, more sensi- 
bility in the matter, they may be less selfish 
and egotistic. These poor men — but listen, 
I will read something to you." 

She went to a table in the corner of the 
room, where several books were lying, and 
took up a thin, elegantly bound volume. 
As she turned over the leaves, she said : 

"These are the poems of Germany's 
greatest living poetess, B. Paoli. And now 
hear what this woman says: 

' I saw them sport with slimy, noisome things, 
Hissing and hateful, armed with poison-stings ; 
I saw them trust to woman's fickle mind, 
Their honor, fortune, life itself, in blind 
And mad devotion ; saw them basely vie 
In slavery to princes— till the lie 
Was seen, the sting ; the chain was felt too late, 
And helpless now they struggled with their fate. 
How strangely blind, perverse, infatuate !' " 

"Better," said Ferdinand, smiling, "that 
they should be blind than wise enough to 
heed such a warning. What would become 
of the world if what you call a warfare and I 
the desire for peace, for the gratification of 
the soul's deepest longings, should vanish 
out of it? Rest cannot be found in the 
world, and hence the longing of every hu- 
man soul for 'rest in. the beloved."' 

" As if love gave rest ! As if it were not 
the source of endless pain, anxiety and tor- 
ture !" 

"And yet the deep sea in which we sink 
all the pain, anxiety and torture of life." 

"Our views are so different, so radically 
different," said Elsie, shrugging her should- 
ers, " that we cannot possibly find any way 
of reconciling them. Nothing remains but 
for us to tolerate each other's views and 
avoid all mention of them. Are you toler- 
ant and wise enough for that? Are you 
sure enough of yourself to engage never to 
make any attempt to convert me?" 

As she asked the question, she looked into 
his eyes with such a sharp, significant, 
flashing and almost angry glance, that he 
gazed at her in perplexity and let a minute 
pass before he answered: 

"I can be sure that I shall always con- 
form to your wishes and that my desire to 
please you will always be stronger than my 
solicitude about your errors and preju- 
dices." 



73 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



" That sounds almost like a compliment, 
and on that account is hardly satisfactory. 
But let it pass. We will drop the subject 
now and forever. Come, our carriage is 
waiting to take us to San Miniato. You 
need not give yourself the slightest trouble 
to please me. But to help me, instruct me, 
and show me that I have a friend in this 
strange land, who, while our paths run side 
by side for a few weeks, will help me to 
pass the time pleasantly and with profit — 
that is the task that you cannot escape 
now." 

She spoke coldly and haughtily, and Fer- 
dinand, deeply wounded, answered in an 
unmistakably sarcastic tone: 

4 4 Your highness has, of course, only to 
command !" 

She took no notice of the sarcasm, but let 
him conduct her down the steps to the wait- 
ing carriage. 

Ferdinand was, in truth, deeply hurt by 
her manner toward him, and this more and 
more the deeper he became involved in the 
struggle that always comes when a man 
thinks he has a claim to a place in a woman's 
heart, and sees that claim continually unre- 
cognized and despised by her. The worst 
of it was that he could not express his feel- 
ings, could not confess what was in his 
heart. The whole tone of their intercourse, 
the footing on which they had placed them- 
selves, excluded all sentimentality. He 
could not complain when, as so often hap- 
pened, she wounded him most sorely by 
talking as if she regarded his interests and 
hers, his likings and opinions and hers, his 
whole life and hers, as wholly foreign, radi- 
cally and forever uulike and apart from each 
other. 

He suffered inexpressibly from it. Once 
in a while he took a little satisfaction by ac- 
cusing her of terrible pride. She answered 
once : 

" That is true. I am proud, proud to ex- 
cess. It is my most prominent failing, but 
I cannot help it. That fault may be the 
destruction of me, but there is nothing to be 
done. I can confess it to you, for you know 
that it is not a ridiculous weakness that has 
come over me since I have been called 
' your highness,' but that it is a natural 



trait of my character that showed itself even 
when I was a young girl. It must make me 
offensive and unendurable to other people. " 

What could be done in the face of such 
frankness? Should he betake himself to 
the ordinary weapon of lovers, to sulking, 
when she had wounded him too deeply, and 
enraged him by her cold way of ignoring his 
feelings, and passing on to the order of the 
day? He would not do that, he would him- 
self be too proud — and yet he fell more and 
more into the habit of it. 

He suffered terribly in this state of things; 
it was so utterly hopeless. And why was it 
hopeless ? Because this Elsie, beautiful and 
intellectually charming as she was, utterly 
ignored all feeling, all the heart-life that 
makes a woman truly a woman. There was 
something abnormal and perverse about her, 
something under which she herself suffered. 
She seemed to be at war with herself, and 
to be conscious of inward desolation. Why 
did she not flee from it into the warm region 
of heart-life? What kept her back? Her 
sense of duty to her husband ? But Ferdi- 
nand had not the slightest idea of interfer- 
ing with her feelings toward her husband. 
Moreover, she despised him too thoroughly 
to admit, in her pride, that he had any right 
to control her intellectual and emotional 
life. It must be that very pride that made 
her so cold and abrupt. And he felt a mad 
longing to break her pride and conquer her 
perversity — to compel her to acknowledge 
the claims of the heart that must be there. 

That must be ? He did not suspect how 
bold the assumption was. As if every wo- 
man must have a womanly heart ! How 
many men who know very well that there 
are men without a single manly quality, 
suffer shipwreck because it never occurs to 
them that there may likewise be women with- 
out a single womanly quality I 

It did not occur to Ferdinand, and as 
every day he became .more deeply involved 
in this unhappy complication of feeling, he 
was more urgently impelled to set right the 
perversity in Elsie, to tear her away from 
the icy solitude of her own heart, to compel 
her to open her soul to a life of the emo- 
tions, in which he saw the only hope for her 
and for himself. He lost no opportunity to 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



79 



tell lier what he thought of the destiny of 
women, of their vocation to live for the 
affections, of their only way to happiness. 
She did not protest against such talk as 
something they had agreed not to discuss; 
but she listened with a condescending smile, 
and, at times, indeed, with an absent ex- 
pression, as if she were not hearing. 

The leave of absence he had asked had 
loug since arrived; he no longer thought of 
using it. 

But he had seen in the German papers 
that the office of landrath for the district in 
which the Castle of Achsenstein was sit- 
uated was vacant. As the place suited 
him, and as it would keep him near Elsie, 
he applied for it. Being one day alone with 
the prince he told him that he had done so. 
The prince, who had the chief voice in re- 
gard to filling the position, promised at 
once to use his influence in procuring it for 
Ferdinand. 

So the Bubicon was passed, the first step 
from his present position in life to a to- 
tally different one was taken. Ferdinand 
thought little about it; everything not im- 
mediately connected with Elsie had come 
to be of subordinate interest to him; he 
had but the one thought, that his new 
position would take him to her present 
home. 

And yet this step brought on the crisis of 
his relations to her. 

Several days had passed, when, one day, 
as he entered to walk with her to the Gar- 
dens of Boboli, she received him with the 
words : 

"What do I hear, Herr von Schott — you 
have asked the prince to take steps for se- 
curing to you the position of landrath in our 
district? The prince told me so to-day; I 
have heard nothing of it before. Why 
were you silent about it ?" 

"Because you have given me no right to 
trouble you with my personal and business 
concerns." 

"Oh, what an abominable answer! A 
sulky, simple revenge you are trying to 
take! How can I help troubling myself 
about your personal affairs ? Heavens, how 
petty, how childish such a man is ! But, I 
tell you, nothing will come of it. It is my 
6 



decided request that you withdraw your ap- 
plication." 

"Ah!" exclaimed Ferdinand, growing a 
little paler, and recoiling as if from a sud- 
den thrust. "Why, if I may ask? Do 
you object to my being in your neighbor- 
hood ? Can you not tolerate me there ?" 

" That has nothing to do with it— nothing 
whatever. " 

"And what is the reason, then, if not 
that?" 

" The reason is, that I do not want to see 
you in such a place." 

"And this will of your highness is to be 
enough for me?" 

" The highness has nothing to do with it. 
It is the will of a woman who has shown 
you — openly and unreservedly, I think — 
that she is your friend, your friend in the 
most prosaic and sober sense of the word, 
if you will, but truly and genuinely, a 
friend to whom it never occurs, even in a 
dream, to give you a rose, or a ribbon, or 
any such tender souvenir" — she uttered the 
words with unspeakable contempt — "but 
who would be ready, if it were necessary, 
to knit you a pair of warm socks, or run 
about the woods for hours to find an herb to 
make tea for you, if you were siek and need- 
ed it. You told me yourself that it made 
you very unhappy to be obliged to leave 
your profession — that only necessity drove 
you to it. But necessity shall not drive you 
to it. You shall not leave it for the want of 
a little miserable money. I have money in 
abundance. I spend it lavishly. I throw 
it away for trifles, for the mere gratification 
of whims — and not even that always. My 
spending money has often nothing to do 
with gratifying a whim or a wish. I have 
so few wishes, that I should thank God if I 
had more, so that I might strive to gratify 
them and have something to do. No, I 
often spend money as a mere matter of 
habit, of tradition. A princess is expected 
to buy every useless thing she is asked to; 
to give her help to every foolishness that 
any society may invent to force themselves 
upon public notice; to allow herself to be 
duped by every attempted imposition upon 
her purse; and I am too indolent to disap- 
point such expectations. And with all this, 



so 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



how can I endure that, for want of this 
money, which people get away from me for 
such useless purposes, you should be lost in 
an occupation repellant to you, and unsuited 
to your nature and your tastes — which must 
make you doubly unhappy after you have 
for years occupied one much pleasanter and 
more brilliant, and have looked forward to 
such a different future ? No. It shall not 
be. You will receive an annual income 
from me. You must. Do not refuse. You 
have only to say whether you consent to 
have me send it to you at certain times, and 
that it may pass through the hands of my 
sister Matilda. That would be most agree- 
able to me, and you can have no objection 
to her knowing it." 

Ferdinand shook his head, smiling. But 
she anticipated his answer, and exclaimed, 
with passionate warmth, " Do not say any- 
thing against ifc; you hear me — I insist 
upon it; it is settled; and now go at once 
to the prince and explain to him that 
you have no more thought of taking the 
position he is trying to get for you." 

"Most gracious and august lady," said 
Ferdinand, when, at length, he found an 
opportunity to speak, "you forget that the 
days when a poor subject was obliged to 
submit to such arbitrary interference in his 
affairs are over. Our relations are quite 
different : I am a nobleman, and you a high- 
born lady, and I will take no money from 
you. You say that you often spend your 
money on account of traditional usage, of 
custom. For the same reason, you must 
submit for once to see your money refused." 

" Ah, then, you will not; really will not?" 

"No." 

"What foolish obstinacy! It is per- 
fectly childish. No, it is more than that. 
It is reckless, it is rude of you to repulse 
me so !" 

"Rude! The expression is a little 
strong." 

"But it is the right one. You see how 
much in earnest I am, how I have the mat- 
ter at heart; so much, that your refusal is a 
wicked insult to me. Is it any satisfaction 
to you to know that, from henceforth, I 
must say to myself, ' You have this wretched 
money, and cannot put it to any use that 



will make it of value; you are powerless 
with it; you cannot even help your nearest 
friend with it?' What can you enjoy in 
this humiliation for me ? What miserable 
pride ! You will rock yourself in the con- 
sciousness of having withstood my will; 
isn't it that ? For the sake of this miser- 
able pride, you will plunge recklessly into 
your misfortune. Heavens ! how childish, 
how stupid, how silly I Do you require me 
to humble myself so far as to beseech you, 
to fall on my knees to you ?" 

She said all this with flashing eyes and 
with a strange emphasis, that made Ferdi- 
nand look at her in surprise and perplexity. 

"You do me cruel injustice, princess," 
he answered. " I see that you have an ex- 
tremely poor and thoroughly false opinion 
of me. I certainly cannot take money from 
you without feeling humiliated. But, still, 
I would be ready to make the sacrifice for 
you, and if my acceptance could make you 
happy, as it seems, I would even be willing 
to deny my pride, and do as you desire. 
But, fortunately, I do not need to make the 
sacrifice, because the assumption on which 
you base it is a mistake; for, to speak 
frankly, I shall give up my position here 
with pleasure; the prospect of spending my 
life near your Castle Achsenstein is infin- 
itely more alluring to me than all the attrac- 
tions of Florence and all that I could hope 
for in my present profession in the future; 
and I will not give up the prospect." 

Elsie rose at these words; she threw up 
her head; her form seemed to have grown 
taller as she looked down at him from her 
half -closed eyes, with a gaze of anger and 
contempt. Half-audibly, she whispered : 

" You are as despicable as other men !" 

Ferdinand quivered at the look and the 
words, as at the sting of a serpent. 

" That is a strange answer to a frank and 
very natural avowal," he said, in an almost 
defiant tone. " You know very well, Elsie, 
that I loved you devotedly when we were 
both young, and you know equally well 
that, for natures like mine, such things 
happen once for all. Since that time you 
have been to me the ideal of womanliness — 
the only one for me. It is an ideal that no 
man can break away from; and so I hav Q 



JTBE AND FLAME. 



81 



remained fettered to you, and will follow 
you as long as I can I" 

She rose and stamped lightly upon the 
carpet, saying, as if to herself, in a tone of 
angry despair: 

"AH, all in vain!" 

Then she turned her back to him and 
went to the window. 

" What is in vain?" he asked. 

She did not answer. She stood gazing 
into the street, with frowning brows. 

" Tell me, princess, what is in vain 2" he 
repeated, after a pause. 

She suddenly turned her head. 

" Are you there yet ?" 

He arose slowly. The flame in her man- 
ner had brought the old fire in him to a 
blaze. He felt that what he had said ought 
not o have offended her. She must know 
him well enough to know that he was not 
making any declaration of love unworthy of 
her, that he did not forget what separated 
them. Should he defend himself, should 
he attempt any explanation? No. He 
took his hat and gloves, and withdrew, si- 
lently, with a slight bow. 

He went with a heart full of excitement 
and anger. What right had she to treat 
him so ? What right to treat his manfully 
controlled affection for her with such con- 
temptuous hauteur V What was there of- 
fensive or humiliating to her in simple 
faithfulness? Had she not herself done 
enough to call out his frank declaration? 
Had she not openly shown him the coldness 
between herself and the prince ? Had she 
not shown him the desolation of her heart 
with a frankness that was almost a challenge, 
and so awakened in him an irresistible long- 
ing to fill the void in her heart, to restore 
harmony to her soul, and give her at least 
somewhat of that happiness, the want of 
which she evidently felt so deeply ? What 
had she meant in her daily conversations 
with him by those self-accusations, by those 
expressions of bitter self-contempt, which 
were an indication of perfect confidence? 
Was she so ignorant of the logic of the 
heart that she could deceive herself as to 
how he would take them ? And if all this 
had not been, if his declaration had come 
to her as a complete surprise, as something 



incredible and unexpected, what gave her a 
right to treat him with such insulting, ag- 
gravating haughtiness, as if the deepest and 
most sacred feelings of his soul were only 
fit to be trampled upon by her princely 
feet? 

They had been right in naming him Fire; 
he was Fire — a fire that Elsie's treatment 
could not extinguish. He did not think of 
giving up, vanquished, of quietly with- 
drawing, as if hopelessly defeated; that 
would have been contrary to his nature; he 
would have been driven to despair if any 
unconquerable necessity had forced him to 
withdraw then. It was only the beginning 
of a campaign; he had lost the first battle; 
it was bitter, but nothing had been lost 
with it but a strong position, and this must 
first be regained. 

He let a few days pass before he went 
back. To avoid a tete-a-tete the first time, 
which would have been somewhat painful, 
he went at an hour when he would be sure 
to find the prince at home. He realized 
that, hard as it would be, he must court the 
favor of the prince a little, in order to re- 
tain his gracious good-will. It would have 
been a disastrous blow to him if Elsie had 
instigated the prince to defeat his election 
to the place he had applied for, and on 
which now all his hopes depended. He 
must anticipate anything of that kind by 
showing the prince how important the mat- 
ter was to him. The thought that she 
might already have been working against 
him almost filled him with despair; he well 
knew how she controlled the prince. 

When lie arrived, he found them pt 
breakfast, and in a lively debate. The 
prince, without allowing himself to be dis- 
turbed, reached a hand over his arm, while 
Elsie's eyes rested coldly upon him, merely 
as if she took his appearance as a matter of 
course, and was no more surprised at it than 
she would have been at the entrance of the 
waiter. 

" Have a seat with us," said the prince; 
"and, Hermann, a glass; let Hermann give 
you whatever breakfast wine you prefer; I 
drink Marsala, though I like good Bur- 
gundy much better; but what can you do? 
We are the slaves of ideas: we are in Italy, 



82 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



and think we must drink their bad -wines — 
a mere notion; so, take a glass; and now let 
me tell you that I have a bone to pick with 
you." 

"A bone to pick with me, your high- 
ness?" 

"Yes, with you," answered the wordy 
man, who considered himself a slave to 
ideas. "You have been playing the cava- 
lier servant to my wife, and have enter- 
tained her so badly that she has suddenly 
found Florence to be tedious, absurd, and 
intolerable. Well, I have nothing to say 
against that. That, too, is an idea; it is 
her idea; and because man, as I said, is the 
slave of ideas, it is necessary to accommo- 
date one's self to the fact, and I must give 
up to this idea of hers. So we will go. 
But you should not have allowed her to get 
such an idea into her head; it is your fault, 
Herr von Schott ! I am afraid you have 
played the German professor too much, 
have talked too much about the Benais- 
sance, and art, and the Medici, and Bra- 
mante, and Dante — by the way, when I see 
that Dante, in his great hood and his long 
frock, I always think his name would be 
better without the D ; well, Dante or Auntie, 
you must have lectured her so much about 
them that she is tired of it. Have you ever 
admired one of her toilets? Have you? 
Say, Elsie, has he ?" 

"Oh, you are absurd!" said Elsie, con- 
temptuously, without looking up. 

"Well," continued the prince, unruffled 
by her manner, " my wife is bored here, 
and we shall travel. To speak candidly, I 
have nothing against it. But the idea of 
travelling is like a carriage, to which our 
wishes are harnessed, like horses, in front 
and behind; the princess is in front, pulling 
southward, and I am behind, pulling north- 
ward. What is to be done ?" 

" The carriage will have to remain sta- 
tionary where it is — here in Florence." 

" Oh, pshaw ! Not at all. Now see how 
little you know about women. When a 
woman is harnessed before an idea, she is 
always stronger than any man; believe me, 
there is nothing more terrible than a woman 
harnessed to an idea; resistance is of no 
avail; no animal can compare with them !" 



" You are getting lost among dangerous 
meta23hors, dear Gottlieb," interrupted El 
sie. " The fact of the matter is, Herr vou 
Schott, that we are to pass the latter part oi 
autumn in Sorrento. The prince expressed 
a wish to be at home at the beginning of the 
hunting season; but he has had the kind- 
ness to agree to a compromise, so that we 
travel southward now, and go home in time 
for the great hunts later in the season." 

Ferdinand looked at her with an expres- 
sion of surprise. She avoided meeting his 
eyes. 

"That is very unfortunate for me," he 
said. 

" You see," said the prince, " that is your 
punishment. Why did you let her take the 
idea into her head that Sorrento would be 
more amusing than Florence?" 

"I do not think people travel through 
Italy to be amused," said Elsie, half aloud, 

"Well, well, I beg pardon for the ex- 
pression, child; I did not intend to offend 
your seriousness of soul and your intellec- 
tual dignity," said the prince, and Ferdi- 
nand detected in the words something like 
angry vexation — the result, perhaps, of 
former discussions of the kind; "not at 
all ! But do not take it ill of me that I 
place some value on my amusement. And 
that we shall have, late in the autumn and 
in winter. I should be very happy, Herr 
von Schott, to see you at our hunting-par- 
ties; our arrangements will please you; I 
have an excellent head-forester, an incom- 
parable fellow, and a very fair supply of 
game in my grounds; red deer, unfortun- 
ately, are rather scarce; well, you shall see, 
and, I promise you, you shall be amused. 
When we come back, I hope to find you in- 
stalled as our worshipful magistrate; I re- 
ceived news, day before yesterday, that 
there would be no difficulty about your 
election." 

"I thank your highness most heartily 
for your kindness in the matter, and this 
favorable news puts me under the greatest 
obligations to you." 

"Not in the least, Herr von Schott; the 
princess and I wish nothing more than to 
see you settled near us. After our inter- 
course here, which I am sorry to have 



FI£E AND FLAME. 



83 



broken off by our departure, you may be I 
assured that we shall be very happy to find 
you at our home." 

While the prince was speaking, Ferdi- 
nand looked fixedly at Elsie. This time she 
did not make the slightest attempt to evade 
his searching glance. She regarded him 
with such a look of repose, such an equa- 
ble, self-assured glance, that Ferdinand was 
at a loss how to interpret it. It was certain, 
at least, that she had not made the slightest 
attempt to influence the prince against his 
appointment. Was that her pride ? And 
was her pride, too, the key to her present 
manner ? Did she want to show him that, 
looking down from her icy height, she saw 
nothing more of what was passing in his 
heart? Was that to be his punishment? 
But that was not possible. How would that 
harmonize with her departure, whose sud- 
denness was tantamount to a confession that 
he was the cause ? 

Ferdinand could not understand it. She 
was a true sphinx, this woman, with the 
half-closed eyes, betraying so much inner 
fire, and yet looking out on the world so 
coldly and wearily. There was no opportu- 
nity for him to speak with her alone. The 
prince said he intended to make some fare- 
well calls with his wife directly after break- 
fast. 

"And to-morrow," added Elsie, rising 
from the table, " we must have our packing 
done. If you should come, you would find 
it uncomfortable here in the confusion. So 
we will take leave of you now. Good-bye, 
Herr von Schott; I thank you for all the 
trouble you have taken for me. The prince 
will call on you to take leave; we shall drive 
by the embassy." 

She made a slight, formal bow, and with- 
drew to her little salon, where she rang for 
her maid to bring her hat and wrap. Fer- 
dinand thought he saw in the prince's face 
a little surprise at this cool leave-taking of 
the man who had been obliged to be at her 
service so long as cicerone. It might have 
occurred to him that this conduct of his 
august wife was a little too openly in the 
style of " The Moor has done his duty; the 
Moor can go." But Prince Gottlieb of 
Achsenstein had long since given up criti- 



cising his wife's actions. He pressed Fer- 
dinand's hand the more warmly as he took 
his leave. 

Ferdinand went, quite bewildered at the 
enigma of Elsie's movements. Her jour- 
ney was manifestly something like a flight 
from him. And yet, again, she allowed him 
to come into her neighborhood, granted him 
a place near her home, where she could not 
avoid frequent meetings with him; for the 
prince would certainly have yielded to her 
influence if she had decidedly opposed Fer- 
dinand's appointment. Did she want to in- 
timate to him that she despised what he had 
said too thoroughly, that she looked upon 
it as too foolish and senseless, to be moved 
by it to interfere in arrangements already 
made ? But why, then, should she leave it 
to be so naturally inferred that she was now 
leaving Florence on his account ? 

And, then, how to reconcile the angry and 
contemptuous manner of her present treat- 
ment with the strange sympathy she had 
shown before, the concern about his lot that 
had driven her to betray such deep emo- 
tion ? What was it that gave such a sudden 
stroke to her proud nature when he first 
told her that his poverty was throwing him 
out of his chosen profession ? And now, 
again, why her stormy violence when he 
had so firmly refused her offer of money to 
enable him to remain ? Was it only a mor- 
tification to her pride, which could not en- 
dure the thought that her princely privilege 
to set all obstacles aside, to make all crooked 
places straight, by money, was not recog- 
nized and yielded to ? Or did it all express 
a deep heart sympathy, as had her previous 
frankness, and was her anger at his avowal 
only an instinctive development of her wo- 
man's pride ? 

Ferdinand spent the following .days ab- 
sorbed in these questions, and naturally 
more and more inclined to be convinced 
that the answers most agreeable to him were 
the true ones. Prince Achsenstein, with 
his wife and his suite, had disappeared 
from the city of the Arno; and Ferdinand 
started soon after, going first to the capital 
of his state, and then to visit his sister. 

Ferdinand had found no difficulty in car- 
rying out his design of leaving his diplo- 



84 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



raatic position. His withdrawal was re- j 
gretted and his application granted with the j 
best wishes from the foreign office. He had J 
already been notified by the department of | 
the interior, that the assembly of the dis- 
trict of E. had recommended him to his Ma- 
jesty as a candidate for the vacant office of 
Lanclrath. The king's confirmation of the 
appointment reached him in the little town 
where he was visiting his sister Adele, and 
he hastened to enter upon the duties of his 
position. His sister followed him in a few 
days to take charge of the melancholy old 
dwelling that was to receive him, and which 
soon assumed a brighter and more cheerful 
appearance under her active and skilful 
hands. This was the more fortunate, as it 
was now late in the autumn, and Ferdinand 
felt deeply the change from the sunny and 
beautiful city of the south to his own duller 
skies at this dreary season. The old cathe- 
dral, with the complaining rooks hovering 
around it, looked into his windows with 
such an unspeakably gloomy and dismal ex- 
pression; on the open space in front of his 
dwelling, covered with a scanty growth of 
grass, cold winds swept the damp, yellow 
leaves together, then threw them eddying 
far upward, and at length, as if weary of 
the foolish sport, gathered them into a thick 
cloud and threw them into the muddy water 
of the pond. On the edge of this pond 
stood weary ducks, their heads under their 
wings and one foot hidden in their feathers, 
almost motionless, except when, in sudden 
desperation at the unendurable monotony 
of their existence, they plunged into the 
muddy water, and then uttered their long 
drawn lamentations with peculiar energy, as 
if complaining that a duck when tired of life 
could not even have the poor consolation of 
drowning itself. How November-like it all 
was, and how drearily soon it grew dark in 
the great rooms with their low ceilings and 
deep windows ! And to add to the dismal 
effect the old cathedral produced with the 
shadows of its black pillars and walls, a 
half-crazy organist spent hours in torment- 
ing the organ into most dreadful chorals. 
Adele's sitting-room had the most direct 
benefit of this musical treat. When Ferdi- 
nand sat there beside the fireplace in his 



leisure hours, his sister sitting quiet at her 
work, these surroundings filled him with 
unspeakable saduess. He seemed to him- 
self like a condemned soul suddenly plunged 
from an existence full of sunshine and love 
into this dark, cold prison-house under a 
dull, northern sun. But these moods did 
not last long. His nature was too strong 
and elastic to give way to them for any 
length of time. The mere fact that this 
turn in his fortune was a benefit to Adele, 
that she was evidently happy in once more 
having a home and a definite purpose to 
live for in the caring of her brother and 
being near him, helped Ferdinand to over- 
come his own despondency. And then, too, 
so soon as the burden of the day was over, 
there was the thought of Elsie to help him 
forget where he was and what kind of a 
world surrounded him. 

He had time to become quite well ac- 
quainted with this world before Elsie re- 
turned from Italy. When the prince was 
not at Achsenstein, the central point of the 
social world there was the house of the 
Privy Councillor Kronhorst, a widower with 
several children, who lived in a large and lux- 
uriously furnished villa, and around whom, 
as around a sun, all the men, the industries, 
and the interests of the region seemed to 
turn. As a matter of course, the landrath 
of the district was frequently thrown into 
contact with him ; and Ferdinand was not a 
little impressed by the energy and genius of 
the man, who was, nevertheless, so mild in 
his judgments and so far removed from 
everything like boastfulness. He had also 
found here his cousin's widow, Matilda von 
Melroth, with her daughter Irene, the fortu- 
nate heiress of the banker, Johann Heinrich 
Schott. She lived in an elegant house in 
the city, in order to be near her sister, her 
only other near relative. When Ferdinand 
and his sister made their first call, he found 
nothing in her manner to remind him of the 
simple and frank manner of his old ac- 
quaintance Matilda. She seemed strangely 
ill at ease and constrained; in her expres- 
sions of friendship and her protestations of 
joy at seeing her relatives settled so near 
her, there was an unmistakable uneasiness, 
an expression of anxiety and pain. The 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



85 



greetings of the daughter to her hitherto un- 
kuown relatives wore perfectly cordial and 
unconstrained. 

"What a strange woman," said Adele, as. 
they were going home; "it seemed as if in 
her solitude sho had become so unused to 
society, that our call threw her into the 
greatest embarrassment. " 

"It was probably the thought of the in- 
heritance which was intended for us but 
had fallen to her, that made her so con- 
strained and embarrassed," answered Ferdi- 
nand. 

"It is possible," said Adele. "But we 
will soon show her how far we are from 
taking it ill of her, who cannot help it, or 
from envying her. Her daughter is a 
charming girl. I am sure I shall learn to 
love her very much, and I hope I shall see 
her often." 

"She is indeed very pretty and agree- 
able. "What joy my poor cousin Alexander 
would have had in such a lovely daughter !" 

In the farther intercourse between the two 
families, Matilda's constraint gradually wore 
off, though, as Adele felt very keenly, it did 
not entirely disappear. Matilda related to 
Ferdinand the story of her life since they 
had lost sight of each other; and how Elsie, 
who lived with her after the death of their 
father, had made the acquaintance of the 
Piince of Achsenstein at a watering-place; 
how the prince had become a passionate ad- 
mirer of Elsie, had shown her great atten- 
tion, and soon offered her his hand; how 
she bad at first treated him with cold hau- 
teur, but had afterward "listened to the 
voice of reason," as her sister expressed it — 
Frau Matilda seemed to have contributed 
not a little to give the voice of reason a pow- 
erful resonance; how Elsie's principal ob- 
jection, that she was too proud to be re- 
garded and treated by the relatives of the 
prince as an interloper — to see constantly by 
their manner that they considered it a 
wholly undeserved honor that she should 
have the privilege of throwing a princely 
mantle over her simple escutcheon — that 
this objection of Elsie's was removed by an 
elder sister of the prince, a lady of strong 
character, who had told her how gratifying 
it would be to the whole family if Prince 



Gottlieb, on whom, as head of the princely 
house, the welfare of the whole depended, 
should again come under the influence of a 
wise and strong-willed wife, and not fall 
into eccentricities by living longer that land 
of bachelor life. The sons of the prince, 
two well-trained young men, now in the mil- 
itary service, had also taken means to let El- 
sie know how well satisfied they were with 
their father's choice; and so she had at 
length consented to wear the princely dia- 
dem, aad had now been married five years. 
She was thirty when she was married,' but 
the years did not count with Elsie; she was 
as beautiful now as when she was twenty- 
five. 

"Years of conflict count up twice as fast, 
those of inner peace with only half the 
swiftness," said Adele. 

Matilda made no reply to this remark, but 
as she talked more of Elsie, it was evident 
how her sister and everything relating to 
her filled up her life and busied her 
thoughts, and formed her supreme interest. 

It surprised Adele that in her present 
loneliness from the absence of her sister, 
Matilda did not mingle in the society whose 
centre was the house of the Councillor 
Kronhorst. She never spoke his name, and 
never joined in a conversation relating to 
him; she also kept Irene away from that so- 
ciety; it was so surprising that Adele men- 
tioned it to her brother. He knew from 
Herr Kronhorst's own expressions how very 
friendly were his relations to Elsie and to 
the whole court at Achsenstein. Ferdinand 
did not think the matter important enough 
to trouble his head about. But Adele soon 
afterward found a solution of the enigma. 
The little society of ladies had benevolently 
given Adele the benefit of the current gos- 
sip of the place for some years past; and, 
among other things, they had told her that 
some time ago, when Frau Schott had first 
moved there, Herr Kronhorst had been ex- 
tremely attentive to her, and it was sup- 
posed that they were to be married, when, 
suddenly, the strong friendship between 
them had turned into marked estrangement, 
from some unknown cause. 

Frau Matilda Schott did not now come 
out of her retirement on account of her 



so 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



newly-come relatives; but she seemed to be 
very glad to have her daughter Irene in 
Adele's society. Irene had formed a great 
attachment to Adele, which soon grew so 
warm and confidential, that Adele could not 
but think the girl would not be so devoted 
and so frank toward her, unless she missed 
a true motherly feeling in Matilda. And 
yet that would have been exceedingly 
strange and quite inexplicable, since Matilda 
was so isolated from the world; how was it 
possible that she should not find her all in 
her only child? And yet Adele became 
more and more strongly impressed with the 
idea that Matilda did not regard her child 
with real motherly warmth of affection, and 
that Irene felt it, so that there was no true 
confidence between them. She told Ferdi- 
nand of this impression, and said she 
thought this cousin Matilda must have a 
strange, unloving nature; but Ferdinand 
assured her she was mistaken and told her 
how amiable, frank, gentle, and yielding 
Matilda had been when a young girl, how 
she had allowed Elsie to control her, and 
how modestly she had always kept herself 
in the background, and allowed her more 
brilliant sister to throw her into the shade. 

So some weeks passed, when, one day, 
there was commotion at the former summer- 
castle of the princely abbesses of E., which 
had now fallen with all the domain belong- 
ing to the Prince of Achsenstein; the shut- 
ters were thrown back, the long rows of 
windows were opened to the air, and every- 
thing was activity. The gardeners raked 
the autumn leaves from the paths in the 
park, the grooms brought the horses back 
to the stables, the high chimneys sent up 
clouds of smoke, and the beautiful' road 
that joined the castle to the city was lively 
with servants, carriers, wagons and carts. 

To the busy city the news that the prince 
would soon return for his great hunting- 
parties, was not very exciting news; but it 
was for Ferdinand. It came to him with 
such a shock that at the first he was enraged 
at himself, at this demoniac power of which 
he felt himself to be the victim, which he 
had allowed this princess to gain over him, 
this Elsie whom he had better never had 
seen. So at least he told himself in this 



moment of awakened pride; but a momen* 
more and he was thinking of nothing but 
how their first meeting would be; what 
would be her manner toward him and his 
toward her; as if it could be anything dif- 
ferent from what might be predicted before- 
hand of their characters; for no quality is 
more simple and definite, and more easy to 
reckon upon, than pride, and it was the 
most prominent quality in both. 

Their pride helped them both over the 
first meeting and those that immediately 
followed. Ferdinand had little opportunity 
to see Elsie alone. The prince invited him 
to the hunting parties, ending with luxu- 
rious dinners, at which the ladies were not 
visible. They, Elsie, her companion whom 
Ferdinand had met imFlorence, and Irene, 
who was at the castle nearly every day, oc- 
casionally appeared as spectators of ^the 
chase. When Ferdinand came to the castle 
for a call, or on business with the prince, he 
nearly always found Irene with Elsie, and 
Elsie often withdrew and left him alone 
with Irene. She frequently commissioned 
him to take the young girl to her mother's 
in the city; if Irene did not happen to be 
there, Elsie would talk about her. It seem- 
ed, at length, as if she and Ferdinand had 
no interest in common except that in Irene. 
She avoided all allusion to the past, to the 
days they had spent in Florence; they ap- 
peared to lie for her beyond a great gulf, of 
which she would not think, now that it lay 
behind her. She was very friendly toward 
his sister; she seemed to be strongly at- 
tracted toward her; yet it was contrary to 
her character to show a sudden and strong 
warmth of friendship to any one; and Fer- 
dinand had to content himself with ths 
measure of good feeling she manifested for 
Adele. In the first days of their acquaint- 
ance, Adele said of Elsie that there was 
something sphinx-like about her, that she 
was hiding either a great passion or a great 
secret, or, both, and that her attachment to 
Irene was singular; that she loved her niece 
with a warmth remarkable in one of her 
character; that there was something gentle 
and tender in her way of speaking of Irene 
that seemed to be foreign to her nature. 

"It seems," said Adele, "as if she were 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



87 



sensible of the dry and hard in her nature, 
and sought in the fresh, childish heart-life 
of the girl an element whose want she feels 
in herself; perhaps, too, she likes to escape 
from the shadows of her own inner life into 
the sunny world of youth." 

It was evident, at least, that Elsie could 
not be contented without having Irene with 
her several hours each day. Matilda 
seemed to give her up without opposition 
and usually remained at home; she showed 
her usual resignation to her sister's will, 
too, in allowing Irene to spend many hours 
with Adele. Elsie had often said she was 
glad the young girl had become so attached 
to Adele, whose influence she thought 
would be most beneficial to her; and so, as 
it was Elsie's wish, the mother seemed to 
claim no right to object. 

Days passed on, and it was almost Christ- 
mas, when, one day, Ferdinand received an 
official notice that very pleasantly surprised 
him. As his district was filled with a large 
industrial population, in which the number 
of crimes of a bold and outbreaking charac- 
ter was constantly increasing, he had peti- 
tioned the authorities to appoint some par- 
ticularly capable and experienced police- 
officer; in answer to this, he was notified 
that the urgency of his requirement was 
recognized and steps would be taken to 
fulfil it. On this day he received notice 
that the Police Inspector, Thomas Groebler, 
of H. , was appointed to the same position 
in his district. Herr Groebler appeared 
a few days afterward, to announce his arri- 
val and readiness for duty. Ferdinand ex- 
pressed to him his satisfaction in being sup- 
ported by so energetic a man, and one, 
moreover, from his own former home. 
Herr Groebler was very much rejoiced, too, 
and they began a very lively conversation 
about people and affairs in H., whence 
Groebler had just come, and about the work 
to be done first in Groebler's department, 
until he asked the question : 

"I would like to ask a little advice of 
you, Herr von Schott. I shall have to call 
upon the prince, as a matter of propriety ?" 

" Certainly. You are not officially under 
obligation to do so, since, as you know, the 
prince has resigned his official rights in 



these matters; but it is still an obligation of 
country " 

"Sol think. But would you advise me 

to take my wife with me and -" 

• "Your wife!" exclaimed Ferdinand, in 
surprise. "You have a wife, Groebler? 
A wife ! Really, I should never have 
thought of such a thing as your having a 
wife. You always gave me the impression 
of being the very type of a bachelor — the 
bachelor in the superlative degree!" 

" Why ? Why shouldn't I have a wife ? 
Police officers are always married. You 
will always find that poets and police officers 
are married." 

Ferdinand laughed. "Poets and police 
officers ! Do you mean to say that they of 
all people have the greatest need of love?" 

"About that, yes. For, you see, they 
are both isolated in the world. The poet 
has no actual tie connecting him with the 
people around him, and the. detective is 
separated from them by his calling, which 
makes them shy of him. They are both, 
therefore, thrown back to their own hearths 
for sympathy, and must have a peaceful 
domestic atmosphere in which to cool their 
brains after the heat of the day's work 
and care." 

" There may be some truth in that," said 
Ferdinand. "At any rate, it is a strong 
point in favor of the police that you ascribe 
to them such a need of love. And you 
would like to know whether you ought to 
present your wife to the prince ?" 

"Not that; but whether it would be in 
good taste, and would be well received, up 
there on the hill, if she were to call upon 
the princess ? Her highness, you know, is 
said not to be very condescending. My 
wife, at least, says that when she was a 
young girl she gave promise of developing 
a peculiar talent for trampling other chil- 
dren of men in the dust." 

"Ah! does your wife, then, know the 
princess ?" 

"Yes. My wife was formerly very inti- 
mate with the Melroths; her name was The- 
resa Holbrecht; you will remember her: 
you knew her, too ?" 

"Ah, most certainly I remember Friiu- 
lein Theresa; we once spent so many hours 



83 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



together at Herr Melroth's house. I shall 
rejoice to see her again, and I think the 
princess would have a right to be angry if 
she should not go to greet an old friend. 
So Friiulein Theresa is your wife; who 
would have thought it ? Friiulein Theresa 
Holbrecht!" 

" Who would have thought it? That is 
what my wife often says when she thinks of 
her old friend, Elsie von Melroth, becoming 
a princess; and, after all, that is more curi- 
ous than that Theresa Holbrecht should be- 
come Frau Groebler." 

"Certainly, certainly," said Ferdinand; 
"do not think that I intended to hurt you 
because I thought it curious. " 

"I did not think of taking it so, Herr 
von Schott," replied Groebler. "I only 
called this princely marriage curious, be- 
cause my wife has told me all sorts of 
strange things about the former relation of 
the present princess to a rabid demagogue, 
whom I was once on the point of catching: 
it was in the Manteuffle times, you know; at 
the time when your cousin's bank was 
broken into — I learned in connection with 
that; but you must remember yourself; you 
were present when " 

"I know, I know," interrupted Ferdi- 
nand, turning a little pale at • the recollec- 
tion of those days, so painful to him, " and 
what did your wife know of it ? Was she 
Friiulein Elsie von Melroth's confidant in 
that affair, of which no one else, so far as I 
know, wa3 informed?" 

"But you seem to have known of it, 
Herr von Schott." 

"I — well, I wa3 initiated only by acci- 
dent." " 

" I can, then, speak openly to you about 
the matter, since you know of it ?" 

" I wish you would, Groebler. It may 
be regarded as an official secret between us. 
Then your wife " 

Herr Groebler nodded. "Let us, then, 
regard it as an official secret," he said. 
"My wife was not the confidant of Elsie 
von Melroth, but of a gentleman whom you 
knew very well at the time, and whom you 
used to meet at the house of the Melroth's — 
of the forester, Emil Drausfeld. " . 

"Emil Dr&uafeld — certainly, certainly I 



knew him; and he was then more trusted by 
Friiulein Elsie, our princess, than any of 
us others. How is he getting along, the 
good fellow?" 

"Plow he is getting along God only 
knows; probably very badly; he has a 
wretched place in a desolate region; such a 
starvation post, you know, as invariably 
makes a man fall into the chemical process 
in which he is eaten up by a morbid devel- 
opment of all kinds of acids." 

" Poor fellow ! He was the confidant of 
the princess, I know; and of Friiulein The- 
resa, of your wife, also?" 

"Yes. They were distantly related. 
Their fathers were cousins, or something 
like that; and although they had not been 
very warm friends, yet afterward, when 
Drausfeld was forester at Vellinghaus, he 
showed quite a strong attachment to my 
wife. The loneliness there was almost un- 
endurable, and drove him back, from time 
to time, to his native place; but after tie 
Melroths had gone, he had no intimate 
friends there; so then he looked up his 
cousin, and used to spend long evenings 
there, complaining of his misery and talk- 
ing of the better days in the past. They 
naturally talked a good deal of Fraulein 
Elsie, and Herr Drausfeld confided to my 
wife that Elsie — she was then living with 
her sister, to whom she had gone after her 
father's death — that Elsie corresponded with 
Philip Bonsart, but not directly, strangely 
enough, not directly, but by way of Vel- 
linghaus. They both wrote, from time to 
time, to Emil Drausfeld, who then forwarded 
them the letters — or not the letters them- 
selves, but an account of their contents, for 
the two stood on a war-footing with each 
other, and there were only some special rea- 
sons, some special common interests, that 
held them together." 

"That sounds strange," said Ferdinand. 
"They kept up communication and yet 
were on a war-footing ?" 

Groebler nodded. " That often happens 
that such a pair of hostile parties still can- 
not quite get free from each other and are 
compelled to keep up some communica- 
tion " 

"And what did Drausfeld say of the 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



83 



special reasons, the common interests that 
held them together ?" 

Groebler shrugged his shoulders. 

"That I never understood, nor my wife 
either. Drausfeld would not explain it." 

"Would it make it clearer to you," 
said Ferdinand, "if I should add to it 
the facts I learned? At the time when 
you found that Philip Bonsart was in the 
place and tried to arrest him — at that time 
he had returned to Europe to be secretly 
married at Asthof to Fraulein Elsie von 
Melroth, and to take her with him to his 
new home across the ocean " 

" Indeed ! For that ?" interrupted Groeb- 
ler, without, however, manifesting any great 
astonishment. 

" Yes, for that; and if nothing came of it 
it was your fault, Groebler; or, if you will, 
it was mine." 

"Yours, Herr von Schott?" asked Herr 
Groebler, now evidently more surprised. 

"Mine. I was overcome by sympathy 
for Fraulein Elsie. When we were at the 
bank I saw how completely the harpy spirit 
of the detective had taken possession of 
you; the fate of the poor girl if her lover 
should be seized and lost to her forever 
touched me; so I went to Drausfeld, who 
was already her confidant, and was initi- 
ated into all their secrets and plans, and 
told him what a aark cloud was hanging 
over them, so that he might warn Philip; 
Elsie had already gone to Asthof. Draus- 
feld at once started off in the storm, the 
kind-hearted fellow, and got there soon 
enough, I suppose, to warn Philip that he 
must be up and away at once if he wanted 
to save himself. That was the way of it, 
Herr Groebler, and the reason you lost your 
prize. But what came of the intended mar- 
riage I do not know." 

"Well, well," said Herr Groebler, slowly; 
" that you had a hand in the game is quite 
new to me, Herr von Schott. I thank you 
sincerely for it." 

"You thank me in earnest?" 

"Yes, in earnest. For, you see, in the 
heat of the combat, a man will strike his ad- 
versary dead; but the rigid face haunts him 
afterward. Though I am not exactly of a 
sentimental turn, which would spoil me for 



my occupation, still one cannot help having 
some sympathy for poor devils one has 
placed for years behind locks and bolts, al- 
though if they were free they would not 
disturb the peace, or set houses on fire, 
or make the highways unsafe — people like 
this Philip Bonsart, who is said to be 
really a good and noble fellow. So you, 
you gave him double freedom, then? you 
rescued him from the chains of the police 
and of matrimony? For nothing came of 
the marriage?" 

"Of the marriage? Hardly! Fraulein 
Elsie von Melroth could not have been 
Princess of Achsenstein if anything had 
come of it." 

Herr Groebler thoughtfully stroked his 
dark hair, now mingled with gray, behind 
his ear. 

" The matter is doubtful," he said. 

' « Doubtful ? Then Philip must be dead. " 

"That he is not. From all I have heard, 
he is perfectly well." 

"Indeed! And you believe " 

"I believe that the matter is question- 
able. For, you see, when I arrived at Ast- 
hof, with some people to assist me, I found 
that the bird had flown. I could not reach 
him, for the world was not so well arranged 
as now, and there were no telegraph wires 
at Asthof or at H. But I learned that he 
had been at Asthof for several days, and 
that a young lady had been at the inn two 
or three days, and he had visited her often. 
Now, it seems to me, that if this was Elsie 
von Melroth, and they were to be secretly 
married, there was time enough for it in 
those two or three days. That is my opin- 
ion, and my wife hasn't much to say against 
it; on the contrary, she is tempted to be- 
lieve it from what Drausfeld said, who be- 
trayed enough to show that there was some 
tie between them, though he would not tell 
frankly what it was." 

Ferdinand looked at Herr Groebler with 
wide-open eyes. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "those are wild 
suggestions, Herr Groebler. The lady we 
are speaking of cannot have married Philip 
Bonsart, for he, as you say, is still living, 
and she is the wife of the Prince of Achsen- 
stein " 



9a 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



" The conclusion is logical," said the 
other, 1 ' very logical. " 

" And yet it does not satisfy you ?" 

"I think it may satisfy us both, as we 
have no farther interest in the subject. Yv T e 
both have sympathy for our fellow-creatures, 
Herr von Schott, especially when they are 
beautiful women of high rank, of whom, 
after all, we can prove absolutely nothing. 
If we were to search farther into the matter, 
we should only make trouble for the poor 
forester of Yellinghaus, the only one, per- 
haps, who knows all about the affair." 

" If they had been married," said Ferdi- 
nand, half aloud, after a pause, and as if it 
went against him to utter the words, " she 
would surely have followed him." 

" Probably. Though it is possible that 
she remained behind so as not to impede 
his flight, and was to follow afterward; and 
that when he was gone, and she had time 
and opportunity to reflect, she recoiled at 
the thought of going alone to share his ad- 
venturous life beyond the sea. I can very 
well imagine that to be the case with such a 
young girl; cannot you, Herr von Schott?" 

Ferdinand looked thoughtful, and made 
no answer at first. Then he shook his 
head. 

" It is nonsense. Let us drop the sub- 
ject, Herr Groebler. My sister will be de- 
lighted to have you bring your wife to us, 
and I shall be very glad to meet my old 
friend again. Please remember me to her, 
and come to see us very soon." 

Herr Groebler understood that Ferdinand 
wanted to be alone, and withdrew. It was 
well that he did, for Ferdinand could not 
have concealed any longer the excitement 
the discussion raised in him. The moisture 
already stood upon his forehead. It was 
extremely hard for him to give his voice the 
tone of cool indifference in which he had to 
talk with Groebler on the subject. It was 
too horrible and monstrous, the thought 
that this policeman, with his diabolical sus- 
j)icion, had put into his mind; it had gone 
to his heart like a dagger. When Groebler 
was gone, Ferdinand breathed heavily as if 
to come to himself again. He hastily paced 
the length of the room, then turned and 
crossed it a few times, saying to himself: — 



" Xo, no, no ! that is too mad, too insane, 
too absurd. It is infamous to think of such 
a thing !" 

At length he stopped in the centre of x\i a - 
room, clasped his arms with his hands, and, 
looking at the floor, said, quietly: — 

"But it is thought — and said! What 
this Groebler has only intimated to me, he 
must have long ago talked over freely with 
his wife. And he had a definite ground for 
suspicion which cannot be reasoned away; 
this strange correspondence through Emil 
Drausfeld, which would not have been kept 
up unless there had been something to bind 
them to each other — something that retained 
its power through all circumstances and 
changes. Did she have to help him? No; 
for they say he has always been successful 
over there. It cannot be that. What is it, 
then?" 

He was too much affected by the affair to 
be able to control himself enough to talk of 
it even with his sister. To avoid confessing 
to himself that he had not the requisite 
composure to talk of it coolly and rationally 
with her, he told himself that he must re- 
gard it as an official secret between himself 
and Groebler, and treat it as such. 

The next day he was obliged to go to 
Achsenstein; he had to see the prince's rev- 
enue-collector, and make some arrangements 
relating to a recent survey for determining 
the boundaries between the prince's wood- 
lands and those of the crown. After he 
had been there some time, and was coming 
to a satisfactory arrangement with the 
officer, the prince himself appeared, in 
order, as he said, to assist the gentlemen, 
and help the matter along. After spending 
half an hour interfering with what was al- 
ready satisfactorily arranged and settled, 
and throwing everything into confusion, he 
took his departure, saying to Ferdinand 
that the princess had commissioned him to 
"require" his services for her entertain- 
ment at tea, as he jestingly expressed it. 
Ferdinand had not received sc direct an in- 
vitation from Elsie before since they were 
in Florence. He accepted, but looked for- 
ward with anxiety to meeting her while ;his 
seething, rankling suspicion was in his 
heart. 



! 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



91 



"When he went up, he found her sitting 
by the window in the parlor, with an illus- 
trated journal in her hand. The prince was 
sitting opposite, exercising his ingenuity on 
a sort of puzzle, and Elsie's rnaid-of -honor 
was helping him with suggestions. The 
puzzle was a little arrangement consisting 
of a couple of wires, on which a number of 
connected rings had to be arranged in order. 
It required some ingenuity and skill. Now 
the prince, and now the young lady would 
feel sure of having discovered the trick, 
but would directly see that the triumph was 
premature, and that the wicked rings had 
fallen again into their old confusion. Elsie 
beckoned Ferdinand to her side, and gave 
him a seat next to her. She asked after his 
sister with apparently very sincere interest. 
He answered her questions, and, while his 
eyes rested upon her face with a shy and 
unsteady glance, he told her that a lady had 
just come to E. from their old home — their 
old acquaintance, Theresa Holbrecht, now 
Frau Groebler. 

Elsie expressed pleasure at the news. 
She would be heartily glad to see her again, 
provided she should not come with too many 
claims on her intimate friendship, and too 
many expectations of social intercourse, 
which their unequal positions in life would 
make impossible. Ferdinand assured her 
that Herr Groebler's modesty would already 
have repressed any too ambitious expecta- 
tions his wife might have formed. Herr 
Groebler had asked him whether he thought 
it would be proper for his wife to call on 
the score of their old acquaintance, and 
he, Ferdinand, had told him he thought 
she should by all means do so; whereupon 
Elsie assured him that she should receive 
Frau Theresa with a great deal of pleasure. 

The servant interrupted them by bring- 
ing the tea which the young lady had just 
made and poured out at the other side of 
the room, while the prince was rattling and 
clattering the bewitched rings at the other 
window. 

" You will be glad, too, "'continued Fer- 
dinand, "to hear through Frau Groebler 
of another old acquaintance of ours, whose 
kindness of heart won the sympathy of all 
of us. You know whom I mean ?" 



" You mean Emil Drausfeld ?" said Elsie, 
raising her eyes and casting a full glance at 
him; whether her color grew a little paler at 
the name, Ferdinand was not so sure as that 
there was something like a question in her 
look. 

" Frau Theresa cannot give you any very 
good news of the poor fellow," he said. 
' 1 He was sent to a very inferior position in 
a wild and desolate region. You know his 
relatives compelled him to be a forester, 
quite in opposition to his tastes, which in- 
clined him to music." 

" I know; he could not pass the examina- 
tion, and so was forced to take a situation 
under miserable conditions." 

" And that," said Ferdinand, 4< made him 
very unhappy, at least at the first. Some- 
times his loneliness grew unendurable, and 
then he went to visit his old acquaintance, 
Fraulein Holbrecht, the only one remain- 
ing of his old circle of friends in H., to tell 
her how miserable he was. They became 
very confidential friends." 

Here Elsie raised her eyes to his again 
with the same questioning expression. He 
noticed that the hand that held her cup 
trembled slightly, so that the spoon rat- 
tled; as if to conceal it, she handed the cup 
to him quickly, and as he rose to set it 
away, she said, with a certain hard irony of 
tone: 

" And this forlornness of Emil Drausfield 
affects you so deeply, Herr von Schott?" 

"Yes, naturally; but from what do you 
draw your conclusion ?" 

" From the tone in which you speak of it. 
Your voice sounds as if you were completely 
broken down over it ! Well, I am sorry, 
too, for the kind-hearted fellow, although I 
have heard that he is married, which may 
make his life there more endurable. And 
if, as you say, such a confidential friendship 
has sprung up between him and Frau 
Theresa, that would be the best channel for 
sending him some help, in case he should 
be willing to receive it. I will talk with her 
about it; have her come to see me soon. 
But, Gottlieb, I beg of you," she said, in 
an irritated voice, turning to the prince, 
" are you not done with those rings ? The 
clatter and rattle, and your wonderful pa- 



92 FIRE AN 

tience in such an utterly useless task, make 
me nervous; it is unendurable !" 

"Well, well, my most illustrious wife," 
answered the prince, in manifest embarrass- 
ment at the violence of the attack, "you 
know that when I have once undertaken a 
thing, I carry it through, useless or not. 
But if I disturb you in your conversation 
with Herr von Schott, I will gladly take my 
rings and leave the field to you. Come, 
Fraulein Eugtmie," he continued, rising, 
"bring my tea into the cabinet; we can go 
on with our work there. I must finish it, if 
it takes till dark!" 

He passed into the cabinet with emphatic 
steps, and Eugdnie followed him, carrying 
his tea. Elsie motioned to Ferdinand, who 
had risen, to be seated again, and said to 
him: 

"I want to talk with you, Herr von 
Schott. I want your advice in a matter that 
lies near my heart. It refers to Irene." 

Ferdinand was too much occupied with 
the observation he thought he had just 
made — the impression his mention of Emil 
and Frau Theresa's confidential friendship 
with him had made upon Elsie, and her an- 
noyance at which had been visited upon the 
unfortunate prince, to allow him to listen 
very attentively to what she said. But she 
probably did not expect an answer. 

"Irene," she continued, "has become 
wonderfully intimate at your house; when 
she comes here and I inquire where she has 
been, the answer is always, 'With Adele 
Schott.' She must enjoy herself very much 
there, and I am delighted that she does. 
What do you think of her; how does she 
please you?" 

"Fraulein Irene? We, my sister and I, 
are delighted with her frankness and sweet- 
ness, and her fresh, clear, natural manner, 
which is so superior to that of most young 
girls. There is not a drop of poor blood in 
her; her nature is as pure as gold." 

"That is enthusiastic praise," answered 
Elsie, "but I believe she deserves it. And 
the fact that you are so pleased with her is 
another proof of the old saying, that such 
feelings are always mutual. She is enthusi- 
astic in her praise of you, Herr von 
Schott " 



) FLAME. 

"Of me ! Indeed, I do not know how I 
have deserved that." 

"And yet that is the case. But you have 
not told me how her appearance pleases 
you." 

" Her appearance ! I should think there 
would be no need of saying. Fraulein 
Irene is such a beautiful girl !" 

" Very well; if you think so, I will go on 
— as an old friend, Herr von Schott, who, 
at the same time, must speak for her sister, 
for she cannot speak the first word on such 
a subject as freely as I can. To come to the 
matter directly, you can understand how my 
sister is distressed at the thought that a 
large property, which you had every reason 
to expect, should have fallen to her, or 
rather to Irene." 

"Let us not allude to that again, Prin- 
cess," interrupted Ferdinand, in a somewhat 
hard voice; " whatever vain hopes I may 
have had should not disturb your sister's 
assurance of her own clear and perfect 
right." 

"And yet that is the case, and I think it 
very natural. But there is a second 
thought that is also very natural — a thought 
that my sister has cherished from the begin- 
ning, and of which I cannot but approve; 
and because I approve of it, and think it 
very desirable that it be carried out, I will 
speak freely of it to you. It is the question 
of making up to you the loss you suffered 
by the unhappy accident that your cousin 
was called so suddenly from the world with- 
out leaving a will. This could be easily 
done by an alliance which could bring noth- 
ing but happiness to all parties." 

Ferdinand looked at her with wide-open 
eyes while she spoke these words with a pe- 
culiarly hasty, anxious, and eager manner. 

" Ah !" he said, in a tone of extreme aston- 
ishment, "you do not mean " 

4 ' My meaning cannot escape you. I have 
told you what a favorable impression you 
have made upon Irene, and you may leave 
it to me to intensify it." 

" No, no, no; that cannot be your serious 
desire, Princess!" he exclaimed, springing 
up. 

"Not my serious desire? And why 
should it not be ? It is my most sacred de- 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



93 



she, and my most anient wi&h. I assure 
yon, I have weighed it long and carefully. 
And why should I not express it ? I might, 
iudeed, have gone to work more diploma- 
tically, I might have gone to your sister; 
but I have always found that frankness is 
the best policy. You do not seem to re- 
cover from your astonishment. Why not ? 
The only objection you can make is that 
you are considerably older than Irene, but 
what of that? Irene, as you can see for 
yourself, has a very earnest character, and 
will not expect you to roll the hoop or play 
blindman's bluff with her. Her mind is 
well developed enough to make her happy 
with a man forty years old." 

Ferdinand had risen and had been look- 
ing for his hat. He stood silent now, his 
eyes wandering restlessly around the room. 
He felt almost as if he had received a deadly 
insult, and yet powerless to express hk 
sense of the insult; he would have liked to 
break out in unbounded anger, but his 
deeply-wounded pride closed his mouth and 
kept him dumb. 

""Well?" asked Elsie, almost angrily. 
"You answer such an overture, which shows 
you my complete friendship for you, by run- 
ning away ?" 

"I believe, in truth, Princess," he an- 
swered, with white lips, "that it would be 
best for me to go away silently. If I 
should tell you openly how your words have 
hurt me, I could not help giving my words 
as much emphasis as you have given to the 
affront; and then — well, then the end would 
be that you would call me a stupid, brain- 
less man, who gets angry when he is offered 
the best prospects for making his fortune." 

"Well," said Elsie, coloring deeply, "I 
am, indeed, almost tempted to call you so." 

"Oh, yes," said Ferdinand, hardly able 
to control himself, " women are incompar- 
able, admirable, when they stand smiling 
and radiant with all an angel's conscious- 
ness of virtue, and look down serenely on 
us poor fools, after they have treated us 
with the most utter heartlessness, and 
driven us to desperation ! " 

"Herr von Schott!" exclaimed Elsie, 
trembling with anger, " control yourself, 
control yourself, or " 



She turned abruptly, and without finish- 
ing her sentence, began to walk up and 
down the room. 

" I said it would be best for me to go," 
said Ferdinand, suppressing his voice; "you 
kept me and made me speak." 

"Stay, I desire you to stay," answered 
Elsie, forcing herself to composure, and 
seeming to have gained her wonted self- 
control. " Let me speak with you as your 
true friend. What you say of my having 
put a grievous affront upon you, that is in 
reality nonsense, and your anger at it is 
forced, in part, at least " 

" Forced !" exclaimed Ferdinand, in an- 
gry astonishment, and quivering as at the 
fang of a serpent. 

' 1 Yes. I have shown you plainly that I 
have entirely forgotten certain things you 
were bold enough to say to me in Florence, 
as they deserved to be forgotten. Now you 
conceive that you must confirm those declar- 
ations by your anger, and show me the sin- 
cerity of your feelings as you expressed 
them then; and so you affect to be indig- 
nant because I take the liberty not to show 
the slightest respect for them. In part, in- 
deed, you may be sincere in your anger, 
because it may wound your vanity to see 
that your declarations have made so little 
impression upon me." 

Ferdinand stood benumbed. To see his 
wrath at the insult offered him, the deep 
wound in his heart, treated as something 
forced, was too much; it was one of those 
feminine tricks that a man has to be ac- 
customed to not to be beside himself at 
them. 

"But, I beg of you," continued Elsie, 
" let us leave all that folly and nonsense be- 
hind us. We are mature and reasonable 
people; let us talk together as such. Think 
as badly of me as you will; think that it is 
only my love of power which is determined 
to carry out a plan once formed; add to this 
that sympathy and anxiety for Irene impel 
me to it; the girl is spoiled here at Achsen- 
stein, where she is indulged and accustomed 
to ways of living to which she is not born; 
my sister and I must think of her future, 
and you — now, really, it is not possible 
that, with the hand of such an amiable, 



9-1 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



rich, and beautiful girl, you will refuse a 

happiness that " 

"Say nothing farther, Princess," said 
Ferdinand, in a most determined tone, but 
•with a voice whose tremor betrayed how 
hard it was for him to control himself. 
"Say nothing farther. It is useless. May 
I go?" 

Elsie looked at him. Her brows were 
knit; her face, which had been deeply 
colored, had grown pale. There was an 
expression of pain and desperate struggle 
with herself in her features. She was silent 
for a few moments. Then she said, turning 
suddenly away: 

"Well, go, then; go, in Heaven's name, 
and may you never have cause to repent 
your folly !" 

He did not answer, but bowed proudly, 
and went. 

He little dreamed with what strangely 
altered features Elsie looked after him; how 
all anger had vanished from them; what a 
deep, proud seriousness, as of great, ideal 
satisfaction, a comforting and inspiring 
thought, came into those features as a 
slight color returned to them. And how 
she whispered words that accorded poorly 
with the satisfied and somewhat triumphant 
expression of her face; for they were un- 
satisfied, despairing, complaining of fate. 

"All in vain!" she whispered. "All! 
Even though I do what is hardest, most 
cruel for myself; though I bind my own 
heart with iron chains, and drag my own 
deepest feelings to the sacrifice; though I 
do more than human nature can endure — it 
is of no use ! — I cannot free myself of this 
burden, this inner degradation ! How 
grandly and nobly he thrust away the 
temptation ! And yet, if I had had light- 
nings to send, I would have struck him 
down for very wrath and desperation at my- 

S3lfl" 



CHAPTEK XV. 

A SUSPICION. 

Ferdinand went out into the darknening 
evening, without thinking of returning to 
his home. Trying to control the storm 
within him, he wandered up one of the 
poplar-lined roads running along the river 
through the valley, into the night and the 
darkness, in the face of the cold, sharp, 
evening wind. Whatever idea Elsie might 
have of his feeling for her, it was a passion- 
ate love, and he had never realized it more 
or more painfully than now. The insult 
she had offered him by taking a step which 
said so openly, so cold-bloodedly, that she 
had nothing but contemptuous incredulity 
for all he had told her of his exclusive re- 
gard for her — he believed that he should 
never get over that insult. He had not 
asked for a return of his love; no, not with 
a syllable. She was the wife of another 
man; he had never forgotten it. He had 
not rebelled, not persecuted her, not once 
complained when she had treated him so 
coldly, when she had so suddenly left Flor- 
ence, only on account of his declaration. 

But for her to tell him: " I do not believe 
your professions; it is all a lie, a trick" — 
that was too much, she had no right to do 
that. To say to him, " I believe, in spite 
of all the beautiful sentiments you say you 
cherish for me, that you will quietly accept 
from my hand a beautiful girl when she has 
a beautiful fortune" — that was an insult un- 
endurable to Ferdinand's deep, passionate, 
honor-loving nature. It seemed incompre- 
hensible to him. It threw him out of all 
his ordinary tracks of thought. He might 
struggle for composure as he would, he 
could not succeed, even in gaining enough 
to deceive his sister when he returned home 
after some hours of walking. 

She noticed that something extraordinary 
had affected him, and at length she ques- 
tioned him about it. 

" You have been up at Achsenstein; what 
has happened to make you look so pale and 
gloomy? You have been looking into the 
fire a quarter of an hour without saying 
a word to me. Has Princess Elsie turned 
into a Princess Hse and put you under a 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



95 



wicked enchantment ? Or did Prince Gott- 
lieb pour out his wit and eloquence on you 
so lavishly as to take all the life out of you ? 
Tell me, Ferdinand. I want to know what 
the matter is; why you have come home in 
such a gloomy mood while I was anticipat- 
ing so much pleasure in telling you about 
Frau Groebler's visit and all she told me 
about H. She told me all about how splen- 
did you were in those days, how you were 
the manager of all kinds of amusements, 
and, moreover, the primo amoroso, and 
how you made the storm and sunshine in 
the Melroth house, and how — well, how 
clearly you betrayed to all the world, by 
your eternal strife and dispute with Frau- 
lein Elsie, that you were hopelessly in love 
with her. Frau Theresa Groebler — and, by 
the way, she might speak a little lower and 
laugh aloud not quite so often; she cannot 
possibly be happy, the happy do not adver- 
tise their happiness quite so publicly — Frau 
Groebler saw Irene here about half an hour. 
She says Irene does not look as if she be- 
longed either to us Schotts or to the Mel- 
roths; she is very pretty, but not nearly so 
pretty as Elsie was then; but not so haughty 
either, and very lovely. She was de- 
lighted with Irene and praised her exces- 
sively. Irene was very much pleased with 
her, too, and invited her to visit her mo- 
ther very soon, and tell her more of the life 
in H., about which Matilda and Elsie are 
very reticent. Irene was especially de- 
lighted with some dreadful stories of a dark 
old haunted hall in Herr Melroth 's house, 
of which Frau Theresa told us. You never 
said anything to me about that, Ferdinand. 
But to return to our subject: you are ex- 
cited; something has happened to you, and 
you must tell me what the matter is, Ferdi- 
nand." 

While Adele had been talking on with 
apparent carelessness, and as if .to divert 
her brother's attention, she had kept her 
anxious eyes on his face. 

"I have vexatious official business to 
think of, Adele," answered Ferdinand, 
pushing back the coals on the hearth with 
his foot; "matters that cannot be of interest 
to you." 

" Official business ! Well, if it is nothing 
7 



more than that, I will not trouble myself 
about it. But it is wonderful how you have 
suddenly set your whole heart on this offi- 
cial business I" 

There was something in Adele's tone that 
made him look up at her with a sharp 
glance. She was busily counting stitches 
in her knitting, and had her face bent 
over it. 

"Heart? Have we men, then, any 
hearts ?" he exclaimed, with unspeakable 
bitterness. 

" Has any one accused you of having 
none? And that makes you so bitter? 
But as a diplomatist you ought to know 
that that only means : 1 Show me more, give 
me more of your heart!' Bat who could 
have said that to you here ? Certainly not 
your old ' Flame V I would wager that 
that proud lady has at some time loved and 
suffered; and it enraged her so that fate did 
not make an honored exception of her, but 
gave her suffering with love, like all other 
mortals, that since then she has revenged 
herself on love by the most extreme con- 
tempt, regarding it as her special and per- 
sonal enemy; and that she would have no 
objections if, for a change, some man 
would make a little romantic episode in her 
monotonous days by shooting himself 
through the heart for desperate love of her. 
But I hardly think any one can ever succeed 
in reviving what seems never to have been 
actively alive, her heart !" 

"How sharply you women criticise each 
other !" said Ferdinand. 

" One judges best of his equals. If you 
men would regard women as beings like 
yourselves, as just human, not half children 
and half angels, you could judge of them 
better. If you want to understand a wo- 
man, translate her, as you would a foreign 
novel, into your own language, give her 
your own every-day dress. Imagine how 
she would impress you if she were a man. 
And then you can judge of her. Among a 
hundred, ninety-nine would no longer 
please you." 

"I will do so, my wise little sister, if I 
should ever be placed in a position where I 
should need to form a careful and thorough 
judgment of a woman." 



93 



FIRE AXD FLAME. 



A pause followed. Ferdinand sat silently 
looking into the fire. Adele's eyes passed 
anxiously over his features from time to 
time. Her keen observation had long since 
detected a revival of his old feeling toward 
Elsie. She knew that he had been to Ach- 
senstein. His excitement, which was pas- 
sing into a dumb self-absorption, told her 
but too plainly that something of great im- 
portance to him had happened. But she 
saw, too, that she could not draw it from 
him by seemingly unsuspecting chat. He 
did not allude to Elsie, and this was one of 
the principal symptoms that disturbed 
Adele. 

"Your newspapers are here," she said, 
after a pause; '"do you not want to read 
them ? Bead a little to me, will you not ?" 

" I am so tired, Adele !" 

" Then let us talk. That will divert you 
best. Can you tell me how old Irene is 
now ? Frau Groebler asked me, and I had 
to confess to her that I had no means of tell- 
ing. Cousin Alexander did not honor me 
with a notice of his daughter's birth. Bat 
I was only one of the small-fry then. " 

"He did not write to you of Irene's 
birth?" asked Ferdinand, looking up. 
" That is strange, for he sent me no word 
either, though he was particular about such 
forms. And, afterward, when he wrote to 
me, he never mentioned his daughter." 

"Indeed! that looks as if he meant to 
disown her. Perhaps he was disappointed 
in not having a son. " 

"It is really strange," resumed Ferdi- 
nand, after a pause. "Alexander was an 
affectionate man, and must have thought a 
great deal of his child. That he should 
never mention her is very singular. And 
Frau Theresa thought she did not resemble 
us Schotts in the least." 

"She is right about that. It did not 
occur to me before, but now that my atten- 
tion is called to it " 

Ferdinand sprang up, suddenly. He 
took a few steps through the room, and 
then stood suddenly still, staring down at 
the carpet. 

" What is the matter, Ferdinand ?" 

Adele might have repeated her question 
many times without receiving any answer. 



For the sudden thought that had gone like 
lightning through his brain and made 
eveiwthing clear. He would have been 
ashamed of it, as a fiendish suspicion, if he 
had put it into words and uttered it. But 
the thought clung to him, and made a 
deeper and deeper impression. Irene — so 
his suspicion said — was not the child of his 
cousin Alexander and Matilda. Elsie had 
married Philip Bonsart at the time she left 
her father's house with that intention, and 
this girl was their child. Then Elsie, for 
some unknown reason, had separated from 
Philip Bonsart forever, and her sister had 
adopted the child of this secret marriage, 
which the world must not suspect. And after 
this, his cousin, Johann Heinrich, had died, 
and as he left no will, contrary to the general 
expectation that he would make Ferdinand 
his principal heir, Irene, who had not the 
slightest claim, had, to the surprise of the 
sisters, become the heiress of the estate 
that would have gone to Ferdinand and 
Adele without any will, since Alexander, 
the only nearer relative, was dead. These 
were the combinations that shot seething 
hot through Ferdinand's brain, and drove 
the perspiration to his forehead; he could 
not shake them off, because they threw 
light upon everything, made everything 
most wretchedly clear and plain. 

Groebler, indeed, had hinted the sus- 
picion that Elsie and Philip were really 
married at Asthof . Who could know, then, 
whether Philip had really crossed the ocean, 
or had remained and kept himself hidden, 
until they had quarrelled, or something had 
happened to make them separate forever? 
And what was there to prevent them from 
breaking in secret the tie they had secretly 
assumed, and to exchange vows to regard it 
as though it never had been ? If Matilda 
would allow herself to be so influenced by 
Elsie — and why not, since she had always 
yielded to her control ? — if she would allow 
herself to be so influenced as to pass off 
Elsie's child as her own, then there was 
nothing to prevent Elsie to live on after that 
episode in her life without placing herself 
before the world in so doubtful and humili- 
ating a light, and stake her wonderful 
beauty to draw from the lottery of life a 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



07 



more brilliant prize than a life with Philip 
Bonsart across the wide ocean would have 
been. 

And she had drawn this great prize, so 
much more brilliant than she could have 
hoped. She had drawn and appropriated 
it— she, the wife of another! But why 
need she trouble herself about that? The 
ceremony was secret, and she was probably 
sure of Philip Bonsart, and whatever else 
there might be to give evidence against her, 
who could know what means she had taken 
to make it harmless, even if anything of the 
kind really existed to be feared ? 

And everything harmonized with this 
supposition. It explained Matilda's cold- 
ness toward Irene. It explained Elsie's 
tenderness for the girl, scarcely allowing 
her to pass a day without her. It explained 
Matilda's constrained manner toward him 
and his sister. But it also explained the 
most unaccountable of all — Elsie's manner 
and conduct toward him. 

How fearfully her pride must have suf- 
fered when that most unexpected event, the 
death of the banker, suddenly gave Irene 
an inheritance that did not belong to her. 
Elsie and Matilda could not now confess 
that Irene had no claim to it, that she was 
not the daughter of the man for whose 
daughter she had passed. They could not 
confess it, for Elsie was probably already 
the Princess of Achsenstein. They could 
do nothing but silently allow matters to take 
their course, and take the property, which 
now gave their actions the character of a 
common swindle, which forced them to re- 
ceive a large sum of money that belonged 
to others who must suffer greatly by the 
robbery. How dreadfully heavy must that 
have lain on Elsie's soul ! With what a suf- 
focating weight. And hence her pallor, her 
emotion, when he told her that time in Flor- 
ence, that poverty compelled him to leave 
his profession. Hence her passionate de- 
sire that he should receive money from her. 
Hence to-day her astonishing proposal, so 
wanting, under the circumstances, in the 
tact so natural to ker. It was a plan to put 
him in possession of Johann Heinrich's pro- 
perty. He was to receive it from IreneV 
hand. They wanted to roll the guilt from 



their conscience by marrying him to a girl 
young enough to be his daughter. 

And how the supposition threw sudden 
light, too, on the fact that Groebler had 
told him that communication had been 
kept up between Philip Bonsart and Elsie, 
not direct and immediate, but through Emil 
Drausfeld, the confidant of both. They had 
not personal interest in each other after 
their separation, but Philip wanted news 
from his child, he clung to her; and that 
was the reason they had written to Emil. 

It was a fearful moment to Ferdinand 
when this explanation came suddenly into 
his mind. It took away his breath; he 
could not stay with Adele and control him- 
self as he must in her presence; he went 
back to his office, to give himself up to the 
thoughts that tormented him till he lost all 
sense of what was passing around him. He 
did not see, therefore, that the door of the 
room opened and Adele stood on the thresh- 
old, observing him for a while; then she 
stepped in, turned up the light on the writ- 
ing-desk, and, stepping up to him, laid both 
hands upon his shoulders, and said, firmly 
and earnestly: 

"Ferdinand, something has affected you 
very deeply. I want to know what it is. I 
must know, you must not evade me any 
longer. Tell me. " 

He looked at her with a wild, unsteady 
glance, then passed his hand over his face 
and said: 

"Well, then, if you must know what has 
happened to affect me, it is a thought, noth- 
ing but a thought; but a thought that nearly 
drives me wild !" 

"A mere thought that drives you wild. 
In God's name, what terrible thought can 
have such power over a strong, rational 
man ?" 

" I will tell you. I believe that Elsie von 
Melroth was secretly married to Philip Bon- 
sart; I believe that Irene is their child; 
I believe that she separated from him, and 
then dared, in her pride, to tread under 
foot the laws of God and man, and take a 
prince for her husband, as if her hand were 
free and her will independent — so soon as a 
prince came and offered himself. But this 
Bonsart is still living and Elsie is a Catho- 



£3 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



lie; she could not be divorced from him, 
and, therefore, she has committed a fearful 

crime " 

Adele looked at him with a frightened 
stare. 

"Do you believe that ?" 
"I believe it." 

" And Irene is their daughter ?" 

"Irene is their daughter. But this wit- 
ness of a marriage that her proud will chose 
to regard as annulled, and that the world 
must not know of, could not — this poor girl 
must be taken by Matilda under her wing, 
adopted by her." 

"That would have been dreadful. And 
if it were so, if Irene were not the daughter 
of your cousin Alexander, then we should 
be the heirs of the property that " 

"We should be," interrupted Ferdinand, 
in a lifeless voice. 

Adele dropped into Ferdinand's office- 
chair as if pressed down by the weight of 
this sudden revelation. 

He took a few turns up and down the 
room. She followed him anxiously with 
her eyes. 

"Well, tell me more," she exclaimed, at 
length. " Tell me your reasons; tell me 
everything !" 

Ferdinand did not answer for a while. 
Then he began and told her, in broken sen- 
tences, everything in relation to the affair; 
what had aroused his suspicions, what cir- 
cumstances and facts he had put together to 
arrive at the conviction so painful to him. 

Adele sat silent for a long time. " I do 
not know whether you are right," she said, 
at length. "I cannot judge about circum- 
stances and people of whom I know so little. 
But you must admit that what you assert is 
improbable — improbable in the highest de- 
gree — and that your attachment to Elsie has 
brought you into — do not be offended at the 
expression — into a morbid condition, and all 
your combinations, all these dark suspi- 
cions, may be only an unhealthy result of 
that. Until I have other and more convinc- 
ing evidence than you have given, I shall not 
believe your assertion. I shall not contra- 
dict it; it is possible that you have discov- 
ered the truth; but I do not believe it." 

" We will not dispute about it," said Fer- 



dinand, stopping and looking down at her; 
"but you shall have the more convincing 
evidence. Do you think that I myself can 
be contented with the combinations of my 
1 morbid condition,' as you call it ? Oh, no; 
I, too, want more convincing evidence, and 
you can be assured that I shall not rest till 
I have obtained it. I shall have no other 
thought from this time on but to obtain it !" 

With this decision Ferdinand left his sis- 
ter late in the evening; and early on the fol- 
lowing day he sent for Herr Groebler. 

Herr Groebler appeared. He always ap- 
peared, when his duty called him, with won- 
derful promptness. As it was a cold, blust- 
ering day, and he had come through the 
snow-drifts the night had been heaping up, 
he gladly accepted Ferdinand's invitation to 
take a cup of hot coffee with him and smoke 
a cigar by the warm fire. This was well 
calculated to give the conversation a private 
and confidential character. Notwithstand- 
ing the surprise that Ferdinand's statements 
must have caused Herr Groebler, he did not 
lose the expression of a man who finds him- 
self in a very agreeable situation and is de- 
termined not to be disturbed by anything 
the outside world may find it good to do, 
until duty requires him to begin "official 
operations." He drank his coffee, listened 
to Ferdinand, and looked, with half-closed 
lids, into the blue clouds in front of him. 
Now and then he looked up at Ferdinand 
with the expression of an unmoving bird of 
prey that sees a dove flying past, and — lets 
it fly. At times he shook his head slightly, 
and at length he said: 

"It is, indeed, possible, Herr von Schott. 
It is possible that everything is as you sus- 
pect. It is also possible that the personal 
interest you have in the matter may have 
led you into error. There is nothing that 
so confuses our clearness of insight in any 
matter as a personal interest. But as you 
evidently desire it, I will set aside this con- 
sideration, and suppose that you are right. 
Very well, then; we have first a case of big- 
amy — for I think this Philip Bonsart is still 
alive; he was, at least, when Fraulein von 
Melroth was married to the prince. We 
should, therefore, have a case of bigamy; 
that would be one side of the case. And 



EIHE AND FLAME. 



99 



then we Lave the fraud in regard to the' 
child, that would be the other side. That 
would be material for a criminal process that 
would make a pretty good noise; don't you 
think so ? I think it would make a fright- 
ful noise, and a much greater scandal than I 
should care to be mixed up in ! How do 
you feel in regard to that, Herr von Schott ? 
But, indeed, the case is different with you. 
For you, there is the third side, that of 
your private rights. You want the prop- 
erty you have been defrauded of." 

Ferdinand stared at Herr Groebler with 
a peculiar expression. Herr Groebler did 
r ot understand the meaning of that strange, 
bewildered look. He' could not know that 
the idea of a criminal process hanging over 
Elsie, which he had stated so directly and 
undisguisedly, of a publicity ruinous to 
her, had something in it ruinous to Ferdi- 
nand also — that the thought of interfering 
so fiendishly in her life, blighting and de- 
stroying it, brought horror and agony into 
his soul. Herr Groebler could not know 
this, and Ferdinand was far from wishing 
him to suspect it. And there was no need 
of it. It was easy enough to find a pretext 
by which to explain his burning desire to 
get light on all these things, to explain it to 
Groebler's complete satisfaction. 

"You greatly misunderstand me, my 
dear Groebler," he said, "if you think my 
zeal goes so far that I would plunge with 
the delight of a novice into an investigation 
whose result would be a horrible criminal 
suit against a lady who is to be pitied, who 
has been led into error by feelings and 
fives that we cannot know. If what I have 
told you is true, then, believe me, the Prin- 
cess of Achsenstein is already punished 
enough. For when she induced her sister 
to adopt Irene as her own child, she could 
not foresee, or even dream, that my cousin's 
property would ever fall to her. In this 
consequence of her act lies her punishment : 
the necessity of suffering this result to fol- 
low is, for so proud a nature, " the curse of 
the evil deed;" it is the tragedy of the 
story, the expiation of her guilt. And you 
must, therefore, understand the design of 
the steps I am about to take. I wish nothing 
whatever like a process against the princess; 



I desire only to collect proofs; and, armed 
with these, I will go to the princess and 
Irene, when Irene is of age and can control 
her property without the interference of a 
guardian, and will say to them : Live in 
peace, but give me what belongs to me, me 
and my sister, whose rights I have to pro- 
tect." 

" There is nothing to be said against that, 
Herr von Schott," answered Groebler, "and 
if that is the case, we can pass on to the 
chief question — what is to be done to col- 
lect such proofs ?" 

" That, of course, is the question now. 
And in this I count upon your help. Two 
steps are to be taken at once. Search must 
be made in Asthof in reference to the clan- 
destine marriage. And also in — What is the 
name of the place where Emil Drausfeld 
lives?" 

"Vellinghaus." 

" In Vellinghaus, then; he must be hunt- 
ed up and made to speak; if possible, to 
give up the letters that are in his hands. 
This latter task I will take upon myself. 
Emil will see that I have a right to a clear 
understanding of the matter, and a right to 
take measures for getting what belongs to 
me." 

"He will see that. His silence would 
make him an accomplice in defrauding you 
of your cousin's property." 

"Therefore," continued Ferdinand, "I 
will start for Vellinghaus to-day. And you, 
Groebler, I beg of you to take on yourself 
the search at Asthof. You will be more 
skilful and successful than a novice like me, 
in work like that, requiring experience and 
professional knowledge. Will you do so 
much for me? The weather is not in- 
viting for a journey, and so much farther 
east as Asthof and Vellinghaus lie, it must 
be still more wintry, but " 

"But," interrupted Groebler, "for the 
police there is no such thing as weather, as 
there is no day or night for them. I will 
go to-morrow, or, if it must be, will join 
you to-day in your journey, eastward. 
Please get me leave of absence for six or 
eight days." , 

" I knew I could count upon you, Groeb- 
ler," answered Ferdinand, extending his 



100 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



hand gratefully. " Let us go together, then* 
this afternoon. By that time I shall have 
arranged affairs so that my secretary can 
take my place for a few days." 

Herr Groebler withdrew to make prepara- 
tions for his journey, and at dark they were 
both in the train, bound eastward. 

We have seen what the result of Ferdi- 
nand's journey was; how he arrived at the 
end of a tedious journey only to find that 
he had come too late. We have slso heard 
Herr Groebler's report, which threw very 
little light on the matter and did not ad- 
vance it a single step. We have also heard 
Herr Groebler's advice to Ferdinand, to ask 
himself whether he were really convinced of 
Elsie's guilt, and ready to drop farther in- 
vestigation than to pursue a shadow. 

Induced by this advice from his helpful 
and zealous friend, Ferdinand had now 
passed all these circumstances in review. 
In the morning, when Herr Groebler reap- 
peared, Ferdinand was ready to say to him: 
' ' I do not, indeed, know that it is the truth, 
but I believe it so firmly that I cannot give 
up seeking for the proofs of its truth. The 
nearest way lies open before us. We must 
find out where Philip Bonsart is. This 
man will not refuse to tell me the truth if 
I make it clear to him that I am entirely 
free from hostile feeling toward the prin- 
cess, but only desire to recover what I have 
been defrauded of — when I tell him that by 
denying or keeping silence he will be a 
party to the fraud." 

" Would not this man," answered Groeb- 
ler, thoughtfully, " would he not know, 
assuming that Fraulein Irene is his daugh- 
ter, would he not be likely to know that she 
has become the heiress to a property to 
which she has no right ? And, by keeping 
silence so long, has he not given reason to 
fear that he will be silent in the future?" 

" I do not think," said Ferdinand, " that 
he knows it. I do not think the princess 
would communicate to him a fact so humili- 
ating to her; for that would give him an op- 
portunity to answer or have Emit Drausfeld 
answer. These are the consequences of the 
audacity with which you tore apart the tie 
that bound us; this humiliation, this degrad- 
ing thought, that you must be a criminal j 



against your own will, is the punishment of 
your faithlessness to me. Believe me, 
Groebler, the princess would not have given 
Philip Bonsart such a triumph, would not 
have exposed herself to such an answer." 

" That seems reasonable," answered Herr 
Groebler. " And so our business is nar- 
rowed down to a hunt after Herr Philip 
Bonsart ?" 

44 You took the introductory step when 
in Asthof; it now remains for you to take 
the farther steps, my dear Groebler." 

Groebler nodded. He was perfectly 
ready. His advice to Ferdinand to drop 
the matter had been given yesterday in the 
fatigue from the journey, in the discour- 
agement consequent upon the fruitlessness 
of his search. To-day the detective instinct 
was awake again; he would have had no ob- 
jections to being sent through the cold and 
storms, away to Pomerania. 

But there was no need of that. The 
business could be transacted by letter. 
Philip Bonsart had nothing more to fear. 
There was no reason why his relatives 
should conceal his present place of resi- 
dence. Herr Groebler, therefore, went 
home to write a letter to those relatives. 
Until the answer came, Ferdinand could do 
nothing but seek to divert his thoughts by 
his business, and escape the sad brooding 
over all these things that brought such 
strife into his heart. The ultimate purpose 
of this chase after the traces of a crime sujd- 
posed to have been committed by Elsie von 
Melroth — did he know what it was, had he 
expressed it clearly and definitely to him- 
self ? Did he only desire to know nothing 
farther than to be clearly convinced ? Did 
he want to recover what was his right, and 
help his sister to hers ? Or did he want to 
know whether Elsie had offered him help 
that time in Florence from sympathy, from 
the pressure of affection, or only from the 
pressure of conscience ? Whether she had 
offered him Irene's hand in cool calculation, 
or whether she had done it against the voice 
of her heart, under the sting of her con- 
science again ? Did he want to be sure of 
that, or only to gain a powerful weapon to 
humble her pride, to gain the ascendency 
over her, to prepare a triumph for his own 



Jj'IRE AND FLAME. 



103 



pride? He would certainly have found it 
hard to answer all these questions to him- 
self. One thing only he knew, and that 
was that he could not find rest, or escape 
his constant torture, until he had discovered 
the truth. 



CHAPTER X 

ELSIE. 

And what of Elsie all this time? The 
gloomy winter days had been passing over 
her unsuspecting head with leaden wings, 
while Ferdinand and his zealous assistant 
had been restlessly diving into the obscurity 
of her past. The prince devoted himself to 
the pleasures of the chase for which he had 
turned his back on sunny Sorrento ; he lived 
for nothing else. He had invited a motly 
throng of gentlemen from the city and the 
neighborhood, with very little regard to 
their culture or their conversational talent, 
if they only knew how to shoot and to listen 
to him. Elsie kept her own apartments, en- 
tirely absorbed, as the prince said, in re- 
collections of her Italian travels, in journals 
and photographs she had brought home. 
He seemed to intimate that he thought she 
contemplated writing a learned book about 
her travels. It is certain that if she had 
cherished any such design, she would have 
been very little disturbed by Prince Gott- 
lieb Anton. He seemed to indulge her desire 
for solitude very willingly; the shadowy pre- 
sence of her attendant could not disturb her 
greatly; Irene only came every day and 
read to her; her sister Matilda came much 
less frequently, and often let several days 
pass without appearing at Achsenstein. 
She had been greatly rejoiced to meet her old 
acquaintance, Frau Groebler, once more, 
and thsy kept up a quite lively intercourse. 

One evening at twilight, Elsie had found 
her sister at her rooms when she returned 
from a walk in the park. 

"I thought to find Irene here," said Ma- 



tilda. " She intended to call on Adele on 
the way, and she must have stayed there." 

"Then send the carriage down to bring 
her. You came in our carriage?" 

"Shall we not leave her down there," 
said Matilda, "if she takes so much plea- 
sure in passing her time in that dark- old 
house ? I think nothing could suit us both 
better." 

Elsie shook her head. 

"It cannot do us the slightest good, dear 
Matilda," she answered; " not the slightest, 
to leave her there." 

" Ah ! Then you gave up the plan that 
we discussed so thoroughly?" 

"No; so far from giving it up, I talked 
openly about it with Ferdinand von Schott." 

"You did? And " 

"I did — and was refused!" answered 
Elsie, going to one of the darkening win- 
dows and looking out. 

"Indeed! Is it possible? Why, pray? 
Ferdinand would be a fool if " 

"A fool? yes, he is one. He took my 
proposal as a deadly insult." 

"As an insult? That you offered him 
Irene's hand ? That is still stranger. What 
is the reason?" 

"You know that long ago, when we lived 
in H., he paid some attentions to me." 

" Yes, indeed; they were marked enough." 

" That was long, long ago, and many 
things have happened since which might 
have made him forget it. But when I met 
him again so unexpectedly in Florence, the 
thought of it troubled me somewhat. He 
was still unmarried, and he has an obstinate, 
tenacious nature. Hence I did all I could, 
when I thought I saw a spark of the old 
fire glimmering under the ashes, I did all I 
could to put it out. I regulated my whole 
conduct for that; I told him that love was 
nothing but a mutual deception, a sham dis- 
play of good and noble qualities and charm- 
ing sentiments, an assumption of a beauti- 
ful ideal character, and then I did just the 
opposite; I frankly showed him self-con- 
tempt and hard-heartedness, and the utter 
deadness of all feeling in me. I gave my- 
self all the qualities that make a woman re- 
pulsive in a man's eyes. Oh, an idiot would 
have known that I did not want his love, 



102 FIBE AND 

that every word I spoke meant that and no- 
thing else. And yet — yet " 

" Did you see him often there ?" 

" Yes, I had to; in order to make it im- 
possible for him to return to his old feel- 
ing, I had to do everything I could to draw 
him into a confidential and unreserved friend- 
ship. I had to place myself on a footing 
with him where I could in some way restore 
what we have robbed him of." 

"What you have robbed him of, not I !" 
said Matilda, half aloud, with a sigh. 

"Both of us, for you are in possession of 
the plunder, and hence it must lie equally 
heavy on both our consciences. But, if you 
please, I only — what is the difference? 
Well, then, what I robbed him of: it was 
my one thought, day and night, to make 
him my friend, my brother, in a sense, so 
that I might restore what belonged to him." 

"And you failed, as you told me. His 
pride rebelled against taking a gift. " 

" His pride rebelled because, in his mas- 
culine vanity, he imagined that my whole 
manner was only a coquettish trick to chal- 
lenge him to re-animate the dead heart, and 
heal the wounded soul with his love. That 
must be what he imagined. Oh, men "are 
so silly, so incredibly blind where their 
vanity is concerned ! Well, he refused my 
offered gift, and honored me with a declar- 
ation I It was enough to drive one to des- 
peration. I repulsed him in a way that 
ought to have cured him. I left the place, 
and when I found him here on my return, 
I avoided him. I did everything to show him, 
in the most humiliating way, what a fool he 
had been. In the mean time, I had settled 
it with you that nothing was to be done but 
to take the one course remaining to us — to 
give him Irene's property with her hand. 
Irene's friendship for him and his sister 
seemed to make it easy; but when I at- 
tacked him on the subject, he grew exces- 
sively angry." 

" He loves you yet ?" 

Elsie shrugged her shoulders, contemptu- 
ously. 

" He loves me yet ? Yes, if you call that 
love. From the circumstance that I quietly 
allowed his appointment here, though I 
could easily have defeated it through Gott- 



FLAME. 

lieb, his vanity seems to have drawn some 
hope, and . so he felt humiliated when I 
quietly offered him a wife. He believed 
his declaration had made an impression on 
my heart, and this proof that I did not 
think it worth the trouble of remembering 
made him angry. He thinks it due to his 
honor to show me, by acting as passionate 
and desperate as [possible, how deep and 
ardent his feelings were and are yet; I am 
to be completely crushed by the conscious- 
ness of my utter heartlessness and frivolity 
in doubting the sincerity of such holy feel- 
ings. If you call such trickery, such vanity 
and egotism, that seeks to conquer because 
it cannot bear the humiliation of a defeat — 
if you call that love, then he does love me 
yet !" 

Matilda was silent a while. She had lis- 
tened with surprise to her sister's violent 
words, and was probably trying to make 
clear to herself the real ground of Elsie's 
excitement. 

" However you may analyze and revile it 
in your bitter and unsparing way, Elsie, 
that does not alter the fact," she answered, 
at length. " I prefer to call it by the name 
it takes for itself ; it is, at all events, the 
shortest. So, then, he loves you, and our 
plan to arrange matters so that we could 
consider ourselves half-way honest again 
has failed. If this could have been fore- 
seen, it would have been better for you to 
defeat Ferdinand's appointment through the 
prince. " 

"It was not foreseen. I could not fore- 
see that he would be such an idiot." 

Matilda shook her head. "We will not 
dispute about it. Other men have been in 
love with you without your getting so fear- 
fully angry with them for it. You usually 
take it with cool indifference. You are as 
beautiful as ever, Elsie, and your very in- 
difference and contempt has the effect of a 
challenge. And 4 true love never dies !' " 

"Love!" said Elsie, with contempt. 
" When I have once made it clear to him 
what I think of this love, and how thor- 
oughly I see through it, then he must see 
that Irene " 

"And you have not yet given up that 
hope ? Do not think that he will acknow- 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



103 



lodge ilia folly by taking Irene from your 
hands. No, not such a man as he ! And 
then, too, I must confess to you that I fear 
•we should meet with opposition from Irene 
if we should try to carry out the plan." 

« < From Irene ? How is that V 

"You certainly know about William 
Kronhorst?" 

"But I thought you had long ago ex- 
plained to Irene " 

"Explained! What good does that do 
with such thoughtless young creatures?" 

"You believe they are keeping up that 
nonsense?" 

"I fear they are. Observe for yourself 
when the Kronhorsts are here, or when you 
meet them anywhere else." 

< < I will," said Elsie. " That must, by all 
means, be stopped." 

"Yes," answered Matilda, with a sigh, 
" by all means ! Kronhorst will never con- 
sent to a marriage between them." 

"And Irene," said Elsie, "shell not be 
made unhappy by really losing her heart to 
the young man. If your suspicion is con- 
firmed, something must be done at once. 
We could send Irene away " 

"Where?" 

"We might send her for a year to a 
boarding-school — as far away as possible; 
to Belgium perhaps; to one of those con-* 
vents of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. I 
should like it if you would, in the mean- 
time, make inquiries about them." 

Matilda promised to do so, and soon 
withdrew, leaving Elsie to her thoughts, 
which to-day seemed to give her no rest. 
For when she had gone to her bed-chamber 
she sat a long time before the dying fire, 
that had thrown its red light so merrily over 
the great canopy of the bed when she en- 
tered, and was now gradually sinking into 
ashes, while the castle-clock announced one 
quarter after another to the dumb night 
without and the dumb sleepers within the 
silent building, dying away in a long, mel- 
ancholy murmer, as if complaining that the 
simplest truths, truths simple and irrefut- 
able as those it was proclaiming, find ever 
the fewest hearers. 

Elsie probably did not think long of what 
Matilda had said of Irene. She believed 



very little in juvenile love; she thought its 
enthusiasm nothing more than the love of 
pleasure, the thirst of vanity gratified by a 
" conquest." It seemed to her that no one 
couid love fully whose illusions had not al- 
ready begun to fade, who sees that the hap- 
piness he dreamed of in youth is a chimera, 
that the world he meant to make tributary 
to himself is engulfing him. Then, first, 
she thought, could the affections spring up 
and come to their full strength; then first 
the inextinguishable fire be kindled that de- 
served the name of love. 

Then she thought of Ferdinand and his 
anger at the step she had taken with refer- 
ence to him. She felt impelled to take an 
entirely "different view of it from that she 
had expressed to her sister; and she thought 
over the evidences that lay in his anger. 
He had, at least, not deceived her; coldly 
and contemptuously as she had treated his at- 
tachment, cuttingly as she had talked to her 
sister about it, she confessed to herself now 
that there was something genuine and true 
in it, and, at the same time, something 
strong and powerful in its manly self-con- 
trol that challenged her respect. And 
thinking of it, she fell into the old torturing 
train of thought' over the whole course of 
her life, as it had led her, in devious paths, 
to this to-day, as lonely and sad and deso- 
late as yesterday had been and as to-morrow 
would be. She thought what a different 
turn her life would have taken if she had 
met Ferdinand soon enough to give him her 
first affection. She painted to herself the 
kind of life she might have led with him; 
and as she quieted the thirst for happiness 
natural to every human heart and remaining 
even to the end, with these pictures of a life 
at Ferdinand's side, her idea of his charac- 
ter took on a brighter and nobler color- 
ing. 

At length she rose, shook back her hair, 
as if to shake off all such thoughts and send 
them far away, and went to push aside the 
curtain from her window and look out into 
the clear light of the rising moon. A soft- 
ened expression came into her eyes as she 
slowly raised them and looked at the white 
clouds passing across the sky. The shade 
of sadness on her face deepened, till at 



10-1 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



length her eyes grew moist and tears hung 
on their long dark lashes. 

A few detached sentences that fell from 
her lips betrayed what was passing in her 
mind. 

"If my mother had only lived!" she 
whispered. " She would have guarded me 
from Philip; she certainly would. A mo- 
ther would have watched me. Then I 
should now have been Ferdinand's wife. I 
think I should. Perhaps I should be happy 
— oh ! how many times happier than now, 
at all events; than now, when I have not 
even the poor consolation of complaining. 
For at every complaint I must tell myself, 
with bitter contempt, 1 You have gained a 
far higher place in life than you are worthy 
of. All that you could make of yourself 
you have made, and it is far more than you 
deserve. ' And this man loves me ! How 
blindly we can stare at the ruins of our 
lives without seeing the meaning that stands 
out so clearly written upon them !" 



CHAPTER XVH. 

THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 

While Ferdinand was waiting for the an- 
swer to Groebler's letters, a remarkable 
looking agure was one evening ushered into 
the room where he sat reading to Adele 
from the daily paper. It was a boy of four- 
teen or fifteen, in whom Ferdinand, after a 
little, recognized his protege, Carl. His 
sturdy form was half hidden behind the 
great hunting-pouch of worn sealskin that 
hung at his side. He wore a gray-green 
hunting- jacket, probably made by some 
country tailor from an old garment of his 
father's, with more reference to freedom of 
movement than elegance of style. With 
his hair hanging in dark, stringing locks 
around his expressive head, Carl looked at 
his patron so boldly from his dark, flashing 
eyes that Adele was a little frightened about 
this addition to the household. Bat after a 



little the bold and apparently deep and 
strong character of the boy began to attract 
her. The pouch, with some things his 
mother hid given him to bring, was laid 
aside, and his hunger appeased with tea and 
all kinds of eatables; after this he thawed a 
little and answered Ferdinand's questions 
about his mother and the younger children. 
He had a letter from his mother to Ferdi- 
nand, which he now drew out of the hunt- 
ing-pouch, and which Ferdinand eagerly 
tore open. Bat he found in it only the cer- 
tificate of Carl's baptism and a few anxious 
words from Frau Drausfeld, in which she 
commended the boy to his kindness and 
begged some indulgence for him if he 
should be at first a little stubborn and un- 
tractable; he had never been under the con- 
trol of a strong and firm will, and so had 
always been like a young savage; but he 
was wise and thoughtful enough to bend if 
he were met by force that could master him 
— his good father had not been able to do 
so. The letter showed more culture than 
Ferdinand would have expected from Frau 
Drausfeld; but it made him a little anxious 
about the success of the work of education 
he had tak^n upon himself in the warmth 
of his sympathy for the destitute family. 
"I have not found," wrote Frau Drausfeld, 
in a postscript, "any more letters among 
the papers left by my husband." 

While Ferdinand was busy with the let- 
ter, Adele had begun to ask Carl about 
those he had left; he told her that his fa- 
ther's colleagues from the lodges near had 
all come to the funeral, and even the head 
forester himself; and that this gentleman 
had assured his mother that he would ar- 
range it so that she could remain a whole 
year longer 'in the forest lodge at Veliing- 
haus, and should receive a pension; and 
then she could go to Ehlern, where the 
younger children could go to school, and 
his mother could earn a great deal by work- 
ing; for there was great need in the village 
of a skilful woman who could not only sew 
but cut out clothes. This, indeed, was not 
all stated at once by the shy boy, but was 
drawn out piecemeal by Adele 's questions. 

" And what shall we do first, Carl?" said 
Ferdinand. "You will have to attend 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



105 



school a few years until you are prepared to 
go into some business, either to be a fores- 
ter like your father, or a soldier, or clerk, 
or machinist, or miner, or an overseer in a 
factory perhaps, if you are good and indus- 
trious. There will be time enough to de- 
cide about that. It is now too late in the 
year for you to go to school; we must wait 
till Easter, when the new classes begin; and 
in the meantime I will give you something 
to do in my office to keep you busy." 

" What shall I have to do there?" asked 
Carl, in a low voice. 

"Write." 

" Only write? And then shall I have to 
go to school?" 

" A few years you must. But that is the 
fate of every one — to be a prisoner in school 
for a few years. You must forget the forest 
and its freedom. The sooner you make up 
your mind to it, the sooner will you be in- 
dependent and be able to help your mother. 
If you are very diligent and faithful, in ten 
years I can make a bailiff of you, and 
then you will be respected and envied by 
many." 

Adele saw a peculiar quiver pass over 
Carl's face; she thought, too, that she saw 
tears on his lashes. She did not believe 
they were tears of joy at the prospect of 
some time being a bailiff, and so she laid 
her hand kindly on his arm and said: 

"I see that all this does not please you, 
Carl. So tell us freely what you really 
would like. " 

" I would rather not go to school; I want 
to go to sea and to strange lands to hunt 
wild beasts. I have read in books how they 
do it. And when I had a lot of them to- 
gether, lions, tigers, and hippopotamuses, 
then I would bring them to Hamburg, 
where you can sell them for a great deal of 
money — for zoological gardens — sometimes 
they get many thousand thalers for them." 

Adele smiled and Ferdinand said: 

"Provided, my boy, that you had the 
money for such costly expeditions to distant 
countries, which unfortunately none of us 
have. But I am glad to see that your de- 
sire to go so far away and battle with the 
monsters of the wilderness is not a mere j 
romantic notion, but is connected with a | 



business enterprise. That speaks for your 
ability to understand the spirit of the time, 
and adapt yourself wisely to the circum- 
stances around you. There I must yield 
you the palm. At your age I was not 
thoughtful enough to give such a practical 
turn to the nights of my imagination. We 
shall see if you will still be inclined to this 
rather unusual occupation when you are 
grown up. In the meantime you must ad- 
mit that you have first very much to learn ; 
first, you must learn foreign languages, so 
that you can make yourself understood in 
those countries; then, geography and na- 
tural history, and many other things. And 
so, after all, we shall have to begin first at 
the real school. What do you think ?" 

Carl looked at him with flashing eyes. 
There was evidently something in the iron- 
ical, jesting tone, that irritated him. Then 
he turned his face to Adele, and, raising his 
eyes with a full and trustful look, he said, 
after a pause: 

" Do you think so, too ?" 

"Certainly. It is just as my brother has 
told you, Carl. That you must see your- 
self." 

He nodded. " Then I will go to school," 
he said. " And if I must write till then, I 
will write for you." 

"Forme? Very well, you shall. Only 
I must tell you that the most I ever have to 
be copied is a pretty verse that I have read, 
or a good recipe for cooking; for these you 
shall be my secretary. But as it will take 
very little of your time, I may ask you to 
help my brother in your leisure hours with 
his writing, may I not ?" 

Carl nodded and continued to look at 
Adele, just as if he were trying to make out 
how she managed to make people do as she 
wanted them to, till she took him to the lit- 
tle room assigned to him, where his weary 
limbs were soon quiet in sleep. 

When Adele returned to her brother they 
talked a long time about the peculiar man- 
ners of the boy, in whom a childishness be- 
hind his years seemed strangely mingled 
with premature calculation and cunning, 
and of the task of giving the right develop- 
ment to this wild plant, a task which Adele 
saw would fall mainly upon her. With the 



106 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



burden that lay upon Ferdinand's heart and i speak to "William, and this must was so im- 



kept his thoughts so intensely busy, he 
would certainly have been but an indifferent 
tutor. 

In the afternoon of the following day 
Adele was expecting a visit from Irene. 
She sat at the window in the shadow of the 
old minster listening, half-against her will, 
half attracted by the wonderful strains of 
the crazy organist who was once more giv- 
ing expression to his strange fantasies. 
But Irene did not come; and Adele was left ' 
to enjoy her solitary and melancholy art- 1 
entertainment, and to listen to the strange 
voice with which the old decaying pile con- 
fided its reflections on the things of this 
lower world to the wind that drove through 
its arches and over its roofs and then piped 
out in scornful impertinence what the old 
church had been mui'mui'ing in the tone of j 
a penitential psalm. It was like the storm 
of rime, rasking forward and brushing aside, 
in wild contempt, what the voice of old civi- 
lizations is whispering from the dead centu- j 
ries. 

Irene had not come, but she was not far 
away. She, too, was listening to the sounds 
rolling through the old building and dying j 
away in its arches; or, rather, she might 
have heard them, if her attention had not 
been claimed by quite a different voice, 
which, although just now not much more 
cheerful than the dismal notes of the organ, 
was more grateful to her ears than any other 
voice in the world; it was that of William 
Kronhorst. 

In one of the angles of the minster an 
arched door opened into a passage leading 
to the former burying-place of the sisters of 
the convent. It was a picturesque bit of 
mediaeval architecture, its arched roof rest- 
ing on double columns and decorated with 
quaint devices. At the farther end a door 
led into a narrow street, so that the passage 
was used by many of the congregation as 
they came from the cathedral services; but 
at this hour the church was deserted and 
the quiet place seemed made for the secret 
tryst that Irene and William Kronhorst 
must have appointed here — Irene certainly 
not without misgiving and secret anxiety; 
but she could not possibly help it, she must 



perative, so dreadful ! 

So they were sitting under one of the 
[ open arches on the plinth projecting from 
the wall above which the columns rose; an 
| old elder tree behind them threw its super- 
fluous shadow here into this realm of shade. 
William's arm rested on the simple gray 
wrap that covered Irene's shoulders, while 
she held in her trembling hands a paper that 
both were reading with anxious faces, or 
Irene read, and William followed the words 
with his eyes as she spoke them half -aloud. 

"Xow, my dear child," she read, "I 
have given you some idea of the life I have 
led, and which has made me what I am to- 
day — a man that has come out of the battle 
with many scars and from toil with hardened 
hands, but who feels that he can no longer 
work for the mere sake of work, or go into 
the conflict for the conflict's sake. A nature 
like mine can endure to live for a long time 
without happiness in the present, and in 
hope of the future as confident as it is in- 
definite and obscure. But at last an hour 
comes when such a nature sees that the cur- 
rent of its life, instead of growing broader 
and more powerful, is nan-owing and drying 
up and threatening to lose itself in the sand. 
This is the hour when it cries out with 
Faust, 'Cursed be hope, cursed be faith, 
and cursed above all be patience!' But 
these are not words to write to a young girl. 
You will understand me better if I tell you, 
in plain words, that in my solitude I long for 
a life of the affectiatos such as happier men 
have, who look at the faces of wife and 
children beside their own hearth-fires; and 
after contenting myself for years with 
thoughts of you, I must at last give words 
to my thoughts. Tell me, then, how you 
live, how you feel toward those who have 
the care of you, how much happiness you 
receive from your surroun dings; tell me all 
this, and tell me, above all, whether it would 
break your heart if a man having a sacred 
claim upon you, more sacred than any 
other, should assert his claim and asF from 
you the love and confidence of a daughter. 
The decisive question is whether it would 
make you forever unhappy to leave your 
present life, or whether the thought that 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



107 



you would be bringing unbounded happi- 
ness to a solitary man could make up to you 
for your loss. If you cannot leave your 
present life, then I must try to gain strength 
to forget my rights and suppress my desire 
as a selfish one, and wait till we are thrown 
together in some other way — a hope I can- 
not abandon. I might say a great deal 
about how dear you will be to me, but I will 
leave that now. I have put my question 
plainly and simply and I will add nothing 
to bribe you or make your decision any- 
thing but entirely free. A heart as young 
as yours is easily awakened to enthusiasm, 
and my words might lead you to extrava- 
gant ideas of the life that awaits you with 
me, if I should try to describe it; and if 
then you should find it simpler and less 
satisfactory than you had imagined, I 
should be very unhappy. But I hope it is 
unnecessary for me to use much eloquence 
to influence your decision; your heart must 
determine, and I trust it will speak loudly 
for me, now that I have told you how near 
we are to each other, and what natural 
claims we have upon each other. Answer 
as soon as possible. I need not remind you 
of the promise you gave me in your last let- 
ter to be silent about our correspondence. 
My address is the same as before : — P. B. , 
Newcastle-on-Tyne. To be left till called 
for." 

It was a strange letter from which the two 
young people had just read this extract, 
and if Irene had promised silence in her an- 
swer to a former one from the same source, 
she can hardly be blamed for confiding in 
William in her deep emotion at this sudden 
shadow that had fallen on her young life. 

"I cannot tell you, William, what dis- 
tress the affair plunges me into," she said, 
looking up and meeting the eyes that looked 
down upon her full of dumb perplexity. 

"You do not need to tell me, for I can 
understand perfectly," answered William. 
"Poor little Irene! It is strange, terribly 
strange. I cannot understand how the man 
that writes these strange letters can have 
the heart to torment you with them : it is 
cruel and inexcusable to give you so much 
sorrow." 

Irene sighed and shook her head. 



"Probably ho cannot help it," she said. 
" He has no one whom he could send to me 
as a friend. You see how sadly alone he is. 
Oh, I have so much sympathy for him. 
He could not write to you; he knows noth- 
ing of you. So he had to write directly to 
me; for, you see, William, ho certainly has 
claims upon me; that seems clear." 

William nodded. " It seems clear to me, 
too; undeniable claims; we can guess what 
they are. It will not help us to refuse to 
understand that." 

He said no more, and Irene was also 
silent. She laid her head upon his shoul- 
der; he drew his arm closer around her, 
and they sat there silent, looking into the 
darkness that descended like a great cur 
tain, growing ever heavier and heavier. 

"You love me, William, don't you?" said 
Irene at last, raising her head. " You only, 
no one else. If they did, why have they 
left me so long in ignorance about such 
dreadful things ? Why is there not one to 
whom I could go and ask, and learn the 
whole truth? Do you think my mother 
or my Aunt Elsie would tell to me the 
truth r 

" You have given your word to say noth- 
ing to them. And the fact that they have 
not told you that there was something dark 
and mysterious about your origin, you can- 
not regard that as coming from a want of af- 
fection. But I think it heartless and sel- 
fish of this strange man to write such let- 
ters to you; it is abominable to shock and 
distress you so !" 

"It does not shock me so much as you 
fear, William. I do not think so much of 
this man, who seems to have some claims 
upon me, as I think of you. You have 
better claims on me, William, have you 
not ? I think I belong first to you; say so, 
William; to you first, to others afterward. 
Will you say it?" 

" I will," answered William, touching his 
lips to her forehead; " I have the first 
claim to you, for you are my life and my 
soul; and no one shall interfere with this 
claim, whoever it may be — even if it were 
all the fathers and all the mothers in the 
world. My father is good and kind, Irene, 
and I love him more than I can tell. But I 



108 



FIB£ AND FLAME. 



cannot let him interfere with my right to 
you." 

She raised her face, and, clasping his head 
in her hands, drew his lips down to hers. 

"Now, tell me, William," she said, after 
a long pause, " what shall I do ? I will do 
as you say." 

"William considered a while. 

"It is possible," he said, at length, "it 
is possible that all there is in these letters is 
only a cunning plot, a strategem, to deceive 
you and perhaps cheat you out of your 
property, or for some other dark and wicked 
purpose. It is possible. But the tone of 
the letters, their whole tenor, make that 
improbable; and we both have the impres- 
sion that it is the voice of true and honest 
feeling." 

Irene nodded. 

" I have," she said. 

"You have and I have, too. Therefore, 
if I were in your place, I would answer that 
you will' not refuse to write the information 
required when the matter is made clearer to 
you. Only half the truth has been told 
you and you require the whole. I would 
ask permission, too, to talk with others 
about it. With Adele von Schott, for in- 
stance. Even now you ought to talk with 
her, to whom you can confide everything. 
It would certainly be well for you to have 
the advice of such a friend about your an- 
swer now." 

"It would be well,'* answered Irene; 
" but I dare not now. But go on, William; 
tell me how you would advise me to write 
my answer." 

"As I said, you must demand unreserved 
explanations. " 

"And then, if ha givas them?" 

"Then we must consider farther. We 
must see whether they are such as to cause 
a complete change in your position and 
destiny. If they should be, then, I think, 
we need not despair. For, see, if you were 
suddenly placed in an entirely different po- 
sition, with another name, in an entirely 
new world " 

"It would be dreadful, horrible !" ex- 
claimed Irene, as if suddenly overcome by 
ihe thought, covering her face with both 
hands. 



" It might be terrible to your feelings at 
the very first," said Wilham; "but your 
real world, the world of your heart, would 
remain the same. Nothing can change our 
love. And then, think, then my father 
would certainly look at you with quite dif- 
ferent eyes, and it would, it must, produce 
a change in his will, in his firm determina- 
tion to separate us !" 

" Do you believe that ?." 

" I hope so confidently." 

Irene was silent. But William's words 
must have been a great consolation to her. 
She raised her head, dried her tears, sprang 
down from her seat, and with the words : 

"I must go back; it is high time for me 
to hurry home," she pressed her Hps light- 
ly to his cheek and hurried away through 
the dark passage till her form was lost in 
the shadows. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

HERR KRONHORST's PARTY. 

A few days after this, a large party given 
by Herr Kronhorst assembled at his villa 
the first society of the city and the sur- 
rounding country. Elsie had wished to ex- 
cuse herself, but the prince had expressed a 
strong desire to have her go, giving as a 
reason that her absence would be taken as a 
slight by Herr Kronhorst and his guests. 
Elsie yielded, and in her court-toilet, which 
had for a long time been laid aside, took the 
carriage for the villa, accompanied by the 
prince and her attendant. From the avenue 
leading from the castle to the city, they 
could see the brilliantly-lighted villa on the 
opposite bank of the river. The light from 
the windows shone far out into the night, 
and the broad terraces between the dwelling 
and the bank of the river were furnished 
with torches which made the grounds as 
light as day, and were reflected in shimmer- 
ing rays from the dark stream below. After 
a drive of about twenty minutes, the carriage 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



reached the gate; a telegraph signaled the 
arrival to the host, giving him time to take 
his place at the head of the broad steps of 
the villa to receive the prince and princess. 
Drawn up on the left and right, in military 
form, was a company in bright uuiforms, 
the fire department of the Kronhorst fac- 
tories. 

After the first salutations, Herr Kronhorst 
gave the princess his arm and led her into 
the hall and up the broad marble stairs 
which led upward through what seemed a 
forest of exotic plants; the prince followed 
with the maid-of-honor, into the apartments 
decorated with all the splendor that modern 
art in the service of wealth could furnish. 
There was a time when not only the palaces 
of royalty but the dwellings of the richer 
citizens were adorned with similar products 
of art; when nearly every private dwelling 
was rilled with the antique furniture, em- 
broidered tapestries, carved mouldings and 
sculptures, now so eagerly sought for by an- 
tiquaries. But the storms of the sixteenth 
and seventeenth centuries impoverished our 
people, and gave to the dwellings of fifty and 
a hundred years ago an appearance of ex- 
treme plainness and bareness. The present 
has changed all that with almost magic ra- 
pidity; the time of the Esnaissance has re- 
turned in the arts as in intellectual life, and 
will not the products of this second Renais- 
sance be prized by future antiquaries as in- 
dicating a much finer artistic sense and 
much more highly developed technical 
skill? With all the honor due to great 
names, still it must be admitted that such 
luxury as surround Herr Kronhorst's guests 
in his parlors and dining-hall far surpassed 
the work of the old goldsmiths of Florence, 
the glass-blowers of Venice, or the potters, 
colorists, and enamellers of Pesaro and 
Faenza. The splendor of these hundreds 
of beautiful things, these marble statues 
under the shade of tropical leaves, the silver 
table-service, the carpets and the silken 
hangings, was so far beyond the means of 
the modest income of an ordinary princely 
house, that it could not inspire Gottlieb 
Anton with envy; it lay far beyond the 
bounds of envy, and, on the other hand, far 
below the summit to which an aristocrat of 



the highest rank is raised by his serene 
princely consciousness. The prince envied 
Herr Kronhorst one thing only — his stables 
and horses. The prince had a special pas- 
sion for fine horses, and to be outdone in 
this aristocratic specialty by the plebeian 
manufacturer, was a little hard for him. 
When Herr Kronhorst had conducted his 
most honored guests to the seats reserved 
for them at the upper end of the large draw- 
ing-room, where they were soon surrounded 
by a kind of small court, the prince began 
to ask after his old acquaintances, the fine 
animals in the councillor's stables, and to 
display his hippologic wisdom. Elsie, in 
the meantime, was answering somewhat la- 
conically the compliments of the noblemen 
and officers around her, while her eyes wand- 
ered as if seeking some one among the 
many-colored groups that filled the room. 
She looked wonderfully beautiful and bril- 
liant. A shade of sadness rested on her 
slightly-flushed features which remained 
throughout the excitements of the evening, 
an evidence of the strength of her nature to 
resist all exterior excitements and influ- 
ences. 

Ferdinand, who was observing her from a 
distance, was reminded of the expression 
that had so affected him years before, on 
the day of her sister Matilda's betrothal. 
It seemed that all the intervening years had 
failed to take anything from her beauty, but 
had rather given to it a noble seriousness 
and dignity. And with the tortures of re- 
morse, the thought came into his mind that 
he was following this beautiful woman with 
a base suspicion, tracing her past like a 
restless bloodhound — that past that must 
have been so full of sorrow and conflict to 
her — ensnaring her with disgraceful detec- 
tive strategy. The thought filled him with 
self -contempt; at this moment he would 
have fled from himself into another world, 
if only he had known of any other where he 
could have been sure of escape. Most 
gladly would he have gone to her and told 
her frankly of everything, and said: " Give 
me at least a knowledge of your secret as a 
right of friendship. Give it to me to guard 
carefully from all other eyes." 

But would the proud woman take his of- 



110 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



fered hand and give him the answer he 
craved? No, she would flash into fury; 
she would have but the one desire, to anni- 
hilate hhn and make herself forever secure 
from what he knew. 

Meantime the dancing-music had begun, 
and Herr Kronhorst invited Elsie to open 
the ball with him. The prince followed 
with a noble lady of the neighborhood, 
whose husband led out Adele von Schott, 
and the endless line of the Polish closed up 
in parti-colored procession, to break up 
again after a long series of serpentine wind- 
ings and leave the polished floor to the priv- 
ileged younger people. Herr Kronhorst had 
found his way to the side of the chair Adele 
had taken to watch the dance; he had often 
shown an interest in Ferdinand's pretty 
sister. A peculiarly pleasant and attractive 
smile rested on his clear-cut features, which 
also bore the impress of great firniness and 
strength of will. She spoke of the beauty 
of the rooms, and he answered in a voice 
betraying some emotion, that he had origi- 
nally had no taste for anything of the kind, 
and had been, he feared, a very rough, un- 
polished machinist, till his wife, who had 
now been dead several years, had given a 
more ideal turn to his tastes; and now these 
things had become in some degree a neces- 
sity to him — the more as he now connected 
the love of artistic beauty with the memory 
of his wife. Some inventions he had made 
after long-continued efforts, and through 
years of loss and anxiety and disappoint- 
ment, the price of a toilsome life, had given 
him the means for gratifying those tastes in 
such abundance, that he regarded it as a 
duty to use his means for promoting art and 
science and every noble effort requiring 
money for the accomplishment of its ends. 
"If," said he, "you had by long effort, or 
only by accident, invented or discovered 
something that might be a benefit to thou- 
sands, a means of alleviating pain, or saving 
labor, or advancing science, you would cer- 
tainly think it base and contemptible to lock 
up your treasure and allow it to benefit no 
one but yourself. I consider the rich man 
quite as contemptible who locks up his trea- 
sure in his safe instead of using it to pro- 
mote noble efforts and so advancing the 



interest of all as well as being helpful to in- 
dividuals.." ■ 

"I agree with you so perfectly," said 
Adele, 1 ' that I would not even say, it is 
nobly thought, but only it is justly 
thought." 

"But," replied Herr Kronhorst, "one 
sooner becomes a martyr to this habit of 
thinking justly, as you call it, then you 
would believe. One soon becomes sur- 
rounded with such a multitude of things, 
that they are a burden; he can no longer 
keep up acquaintance with them all; they 
grow to be perfectly strange and the plea 
sure of possession one has with less is gone. 
The idea of property has only a certain 
amount of elasticity; it has limits beyond 
which the human mind is incapable of 
stretching it. It is a cloth according to 
which one can cut his coat when it is too 
short, but when it is too long, he cannot 
possibly get it all in, 4 My property' — do 
you think I feel any pride and satisfaction 
in being the owner of all that men regard 
as my undisputed possession? Of these 
large sums of money that remain to me as 
profit after the accounts for the year are bal- 
anced ? Not in the least; I look upon those 
sums only as a minister of finance at the 
figures of his budget; it never occurs to him 
to regard the money they represent as his 
own. I feel like a manager at the head of 
some great establishment, whose profits be- 
long to the commonwealth of mankind, the 
ultimate proprietor of all." 

" What you say leads me to think of 
something I have not hitherto thought 
much about — of 'property,' the subject our 
socialists are troubling themselves so much 
about. It seems your wealth has led you to 
the same conclusions others have arrived at 
through their poverty." 

"It is possible," answered Herr Kron- 
horst, smiling. "The first result of this 
feeling is a very natural wish. If I cannot 
directly enjoy all that comes to me because 
we chance to live in a time one of whose 
first needs is for just the things my factories 
produce, and the millions of the State trea- 
sury have a peculiar tendency to throw 
themselves away on me for much coarser 
and clumsier metal; if I cannot myself ei - 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



Ill 



joy this superfluous wealth, and often feel 
like a martyr to all the obligations it briugs 
upon rne, then I can but long to enjoy it in- 
directly, by making it benefit some other 
one whose happiness would be mine." 

" But that again is bad," answered Adele, 
after a pause; "for one whose happiness 
could be found in all this wealth and splen- 
dor would certainly not be one who could 
make you happy. Neither could you easily 
find one who would be willing to accept 
such an office from you." 

"An office?" 

" Yes, it would be that; the office of your 
deputy in enjoyment, to taste for you the 
pleasures to which you are no longer sen- 
sitive." 

"For which I am too blase, is what you 
would say, Fraulein. That is too bad of you. 
I should not have taken you to be like all 
other women, who, when we open our hearts 
to them in confidence, begin at once to 
abuse us." 

" Have you often had that experience?" 

" How one has to be on his guard with 
you," answered the gentleman, smiling. 
"But I admit that your answer is a de- 
served punishment for my assertion. You 
are right; I have very seldom opened my 
heart in confidence to any one, and less fre- 
quently or never been repaid with abuse. 
I will, therefore, retract and apologize, at 
the same time acknowledging that I should 
have no objection to being abused by you a 
little more." 

" Then you must first confide something 
more to me." 

"What shall I confide to you ?" 

Adele looked frankly at him, and in the 
feeling of confidence the man inspired, she 
said: — 

"I have an almost motherly tenderness 
for my young cousin Irene. I alone know 
that she suffers, and how she suffers. Can 
your confidence lead you so far as to tell 
me why she does not please you?" 

Adele colored. She had spoken on the 
impulse of the moment; -she felt directly 
how indiscreet the question was. 

"Does not pAease me?" he answered, 
quickly. " Oh, do not think that. I think 
Fraulein Irene much more attractive than 
8 



I all these light-footed and charming girls 
around us, far prettier and more attractive. 
But as you ask my confidence, and as I 
wish nothing more than to show you confi- 
dence, I will willingly tell you that there is 
a reason in Irene's circumstances that makes 
it impossible, forever impossible, for me to 
consent to a marriage between her and my 
son. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you 
more, or, at most, only this, that an inquiry 
into those circumstances, the reason for my 
determination, would be entirely fruitless. 
There are some things in life that we can 
confide to no one, because' they are not our 
secrets. Give me your hand upon it that 
you will not be led by your sympathy for 
Irene to search into the facts I have hinted 
at, will you?" 

Adele silently took the offered hand. 

"I will give you the promise," she said, 
then, "if you will promise me to forgive 
and forget the interference I was led into 
by my love for poor Irene." 

" That I certainly shall not do, Fraulein 
von Schott; your confidence has given me 
too much pleasure for that. But I have 
forgotten to see whether our prince has 
found a partner for his game of whist. Ex- 
cuse me, please." 

Herr Kronhorst went away to his duty as 
host, and Adele looked for her brother, to 
whom she would have liked to report the 
conversation. But Ferdinand was just then 
engaged, and Adele was soon joined by 
William Kronhorst, who took advantage of 
the moment the dance ended to slip into 
the chair at her side and enter into a con- 
versation, whose ultimate object, as Adele 
could easily guess, was Irene. And, in 
truth, he soon turned the conversation upon 
her. Adele talked freely to him of her feel- 
ings toward the girl; the young man's frank 
face, with its dark eyes and heavy dark- 
brown hair curling around it, inspired her 
with sympathy; he assured her that Irene 
was enthusiastically fond of her, and had 
often told him she trusted no one on earth 
more completely. 

" No one? Do you believe that?" asked 
Adele, smiling slily. 

" Why should I not?" he answered, col- 
oring deeply. " I have heard from her all 



112 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



she has confided to you, and I know I can 
talk openly with you, since you have been 
so kind to her. I am anxious to know what 
you think of the letters." 

" Of the letters ? What letters ?" 

" Why, the two letters she has received 
from England." 

"Letters? From England? That Irene 
has received ?" 

" Why, has she not talked with you about 
them?" 

" She has not said a word to me." 

" Oh, then I have been too hasty. Then 
excuse me from saying anything more about 
them; it is not my secret, but Irene's. I 
thought she had already told you. She has 
received two letters from some one she does 
not know, that is all," and, ashamed of his 
indiscretion, he looked away embarrassed. 

"Perhaps she will tell you yet," he 
added. "If my father would only speak," 
he continued; "if he only would speak! 
But he will not." 

"Oh, do not blame your father," said 
Adele; "a man like him will neither speak 
nor be silent without the most important 
reasons, reasons that demand our respect." 

" He has reasons," said William, "and I 
can think what they are. He was once very 
attentive to Frau Schott, Irene's mother. 
She must have told him some facts that in- 
duced him to break off his friendship with 
her, and to refuse me so cruelly when I 
spoke to him of Irene. She told you of 
that?" 

" Yes; and I have done what I could to 
comfort her and convince her that we must 
be resigned to what is unavoidable and un- 
alterable." 

"Unalterable?" said William, with a 
gloomy smile. "That would be too hard. 
I can assure you," he added, with a deter- 
mined look " that neither Lene nor I look 
upon it in that way." 

Adele was about to answer when they 
were interrupted by some gentlemen who 
came up to speak to her, and William with- 
drew. 

Ferdinand, in the meantime, had ex- 
changed greetings with his acquaintances 
and the few ladies with whom politeness re- 
quired him to pass a few words. At length, 



as he turned away from the last one, he saw 
Elsie near him, walking slowly through the 
room, accompanied by an old gentleman, 
profusely decorated. 

"I assure your highness," said the old 
gentleman, "to make room for his villa, 
Kronhorst, like a Vandal, tore down an ex- 
ceedingly picturesque ruin of an old castle 
that stood here on the bank and commanded 
the river. When I was a boy it had some 
very well preserved towers with roofs; I. 
have often climbed up into them. It was 
the family-seat of an old family whose last 
representative lost his life in the Thirty 
Years' War; he did not fall in battle, but 
was murdered. He was stabbed by the 
hand of a woman. It is a very strange, 
tragic story. And now, is it not dreadful to 
destroy such a beautif ul relic of feudal 
Christian architecture, to make way for a 
Baal's temple of sinful modern luxury?" 

"Do you think, then, my dear count," 
answered the princess, ' ' that life in those 
old castles and in the times when women 
had to defend themselves with knives, was 
any less sinful?" 

"No," answered the count. "But the 
sins of that time were grander, wilder, more 
poetic. Let us take as an example the story 
I have just mentioned, the murder of the 
last of the House of Tratzberg. He was at 
a great banquet given by the officers of an 
imperial regiment, the night before they 
were to leave the city where they had been 
in winter quarters. He was stabbed there 
by a passionate girl, who could not be re- 
signed to. his leaving her. Then she 
drowned herself in the waters of some 
neighboring river or pond." 

"Ah, and that story is true!" exclaimed 
Elsie, and in her astonishment she turned 
to Ferdinand, saying, " I beg of you, Herr 
von Schott, hear what Count Langendorf 
has told me." 

Ferdinand had turned slightly pale as he 
heard himself called so suddenly and unex- 
pectedly by the princess. He stepped up, 
and Count Langendorf repeated the story 
of the death of the last of the Tratzbergs. 
" There is no doubt that the story is true," 
he said, in conclusion. "It is mentioned 
in several old local histories, and I heard it 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



113 



from my grandfather when I was a child. 
The arms of the Tratzbergs appear very 
often on our ancestral roll." 

"And what do you say to that?" said 
Elsie, turning again to Ferdinand; "isn't it 
very strange that we should come upon this 
dark and horrible deed again here?" 

At this moment Count Langendorf was 
drawn away by a lady who begged him to 
give her his arm for a promenade through 
the rooms. Elsie also made a movement to 
go, and, by a slight motion of the head, 
gave Ferdinand to understand that she 
wanted him to accompany her. In the 
next room she sat down on a sofa standing 
somewhat apart beside a pyramid of exotic 
flowers, then said, smiling: — 

" You would not honor me with a word 
the whole evening, Herr von Schott. Now 
the death of the last Tratzberg has drawn 
us together by force, and I think all resent- 
ment should be silenced at a grave, should 
it not ? So take a seat here, and let us gos- 
sip a little." 

" Gossip, princess ? At a grave ?" 

"Oh, that wretched man, who, after all, 
only received what he deserved, cannot ex- 
pect to keep us under restraint, although it 
is remarkable that we should have come 
upon his track here again, as if he were 
pursuing us." 

( ' More correctly, as if we were pursuing 
him. I hope there is nothing prophetic for 
us in his story. Perhaps our guardian 
angels send us this old tradition of his death 
as a warning. " 

"As a warning against every passion, it is 
possible. We are both hot-headed, Herr 
von Schott, therefore take care; it would be 
bad for us both if you should enrage me so 
by acting unreasonably, as, for instance, 
you did recently, that I should first murder 
you, and then throw myself into the river." 

She spoke in a jesting tone, but with a 
slight tremor in her voice. 

"You are right, princess," answered Fer- 
dinand, " it would be bad for us both; the 
more as we could so easily get on so peace- 
ably together. Therefore, let us try this 
latter plan." 

" Try ? I think it would become two rea- 
sonable old people like us better to say, let 



us resolve it. A trial presupposes the pos- 
sibility of failure. And I do not think we 
need to fear that. Neither of us, I think, 
could be reproached as lacking in strength 
of will or self-control." 

" That may be. But it is a sad fact that 
we have only one-half ourselves in our own 
power. Would you like to have me give 
you my theory of it as well as I can ? A 
man is like a planet that has two distinct 
motions; the one turns him around himself 
with all the force of his egotism; the other 
sends him in a course he does not himself 
understand, around some other object. But, 
after all, this does not express what I want 
to say. He is rather like a being half plant 
and half human, like Daphne, when, with 
her feet in the earth, she stretched her arms 
toward Heaven and prayed to Zeus. Man 
is half a plant, half a free, conscious being. 
This free, conscious being is controlled by 
his reason and his resolution. But the 
plant must be allowed to grow in its own 
way. Whatever it may grow into he has no 
power over it, no knowledge of it. He 
must be resigned to suffer this dark, mys- 
terious growth, this plant-life, or unconsci- 
ous part of his existence. He has as little 
power over it as has the beetle in the heart 
of a rose-bud over the development of the 
rose. When this part gains the ascendency 
— as sometimes happens — over the other 
part, the part controlled by reason, men 
call it passion; they have written many wise, 
beautiful, and moral things about the demon 
that carries them away at such times, from 
the earliest antiquity down to to-day. But, 
with all this, they have come no nearer to 
discovering the real nature of the demon or 
finding means to break his power." 

" Oh, you make me dizzy with your con- 
fused talk: you seem to have grown so 
yourself, perhaps from watching these end- 
less circles of the dance. Why do you dis- 
tress me with your absurd theory ? Do you 
think I should be afraid of your demon?" 

" No, I do not think you are afraid of it. 
princess; but I am." 

" Perhaps, then, it will help to quiet your 
apprehensions to see how calmly I look 
upon this mystical and, to me, not at all 
dangerous being." 



Ill FIBE 

" Perhaps. But can you always do tliat ? 
Will you always be able to look coolly on 
this demon in the soul of a man, filling it 
with a morbid restlessness, compelling it 
to be forever buried with you, to trace 
every step of your life in the past — a demon 
that is an actual demon, a monomania, if 
you will, an insanity " 

The princess raised her eyes slowly and 
looked him full in the face. 

" You are right in saying that it would be 
a monomania, an insanity — and who could 
be entirely composed in the presence of a 
lunatic? No; in that case I am afraid I 
should be seized with terror and should run 
away and leave the lunatic to himself and 
his lunacy." 

" You would not rather try to cure him ?" 

"How could I do that ?" 

"Easily, I think — by confidence; by 
drawing him away from his researches into 
your past and his thoughts about your fu- 
ture, as you could do by really making the 
friend of him that he would like to be. To 
have common intellectual interests, as we 
had in Florence, no friend can be per- 
manently satisfied with that; only common 
interests of the affections can bind men into 
real and permanent friendship, and such a 
community of interest is not conceivable 
without confidence regarding the past and 
the future." 

It was a sharp, flashing glance that she 
sent into his face while he was speaking. 
Then she lowered her eyes and said: 

"lam afraid I was not born to * minister 
to a mind diseased.' I should certainly not 
fail in good- will and zeal and honest sympa- 
thy. But after having once made the trial 
— God knows how sincerely — to heal the 
sick, I lack the courage and perseverance to 
begin again, seeing what an utter failure 
my first attempt has been. You cannot cer- 
tainly ask that. To struggle with a demon ! 
Great God, how can a woman do that ? To 
have a community of heart-interests with a 
lunatic ! What an idea ! No, no, Herr von 
Schott, nothing remains for me but to take 
to flight, and wait till reason returns of 
itself to the afflicted, and shows him what a 
fool he has been to waste his time search- 
ing into a woman's past, when there are so 



AND FLAME 

many things incomparably more worthy of 
a man's attention !" 

She rose and withdrew. Ferdinand look- 
ed after her terrified. How angrily her 
.voice Had trembled at the last words ! And 
so he had gained nothing he had hoped to 
gain; he had but deepened the gulf be- 
tween them. His hope of gaining her con- 
fidence so that she would frankly tell him 
of her life was at last entirely destroyed. 
And her anger — was there not something in 
the coolness with which she had listened to 
him, something that told him he was really 
a fool and a lunatic with all his infamous 
suspicions? Would he not do well to hold 
to his own theory of the double nature of 
man, one-half being under the control of 
reason, the other governed by passion, and 
often the slave of demoniac fantasies, fixed 
notions from which it cannot free itself, and 
in which there is nothing real but the un- 
speakable wretchedness they bring ? As Fer- 
dinand said this to himself he was seized 
with despondency; he would have liked to 
escape, not alone from this suspicion against 
Elsie, but from himself, to flee afar off into 
the wide world, into nothingness. He felt 
that he was fast being driven to desperation; 
and how was it all to end ? Was he at last 
to arrive at the truth, at certainty in his in- 
vestigations ? The very thought of those 
investigations filled him with disgust ! 

And yet the very next moment took him 
back to them. A gentleman stepped up to 
him and took the seat the princess had just 
left; as he looked up he met the sharp eyes 
of Groebler. It went to his heart like a 
dagger. Groebler seemed now like an ac- 
complice in guilt, like an incarnate reproach, 
like a reflection of his conscience. Was it 
not shameful that, spurred on by his demon, 
he had gone so far as to let such a man into 
the secret, to use him as a bloodhound upon 
the track of the woman he loved? Poor 
Groebler had very little suspicion of any 
such thought. He began, cheerfully: 

" Now, see how much a man may have to 
thank his dear wife for. Because my wife 
is from a good family, and has had a 
friendly reception from you and Fraulein 
von Schott, and the privilege of calling on 
th3 princess, a poor police-inspector gets an 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



115 



imitation to a party like this. You can 
imagine how I am nattered by it. To be a 
guest in these rooms ! It is like a dream, a 
lovely dream ! Do you know what I would 
like?" 

" Well, what would you like, Groebler?" 
" You will laugh at me. I would like it 
if I could place all these people, these finely 
dressed, brilliant, noble people with all the 
claims on our unbounded reverence ex- 
pressed by their diamonds, their silken 
robes, their stars and uniforms — I would 
like, by some diabolical sorcery, to place 
them in the various cells and dungeon holes 
which I have hitherto provided with in- 
mates by my official efforts. And, on the 
other hand, I would like to bring all those 
poor devils from their cells and place them 
in these brilliant parlors and at those tables 
in the dining-rooms, and keep them here 
till morning; then I would have the rascals 
back behind their bars and these honest 
people in their warm, comfortable beds." 

" What a wonderful policeman's imagina- 
tion you have, Herr Groebler ! What satis- 
faction could you take in that ?" 

" What satisfaction ? Why, you see, one 
can't help having some heart, and when I 
have nothing better to think of, my mind 
turns to my foster-children, who owe to me 
their reception into a moral, domestic circle. 
To be sure, they are in reality the foster- 
children of the state; but I cannot get rid 
of the feeling after I have secured their 
adoption, that they are my proteges or 
wards. Now I think my foster-children 
would be very much amused here. Do you 
not think so, Herr von Schott?" 

"Undoubtedly. It would be excellent 
amusement for them." 

" Yes, and it would have such a good in- 
fluence on them to let them see how plea- 
sant Kfe is for honest people — people that 
have never come under the ban of the law 
— what a reward ' unbankrupt morality' 
has even on earth. " 

"But for that purpose you would not 
need to shut us all up in your cells for the 
night, your landrath most disrespectfully in- 
cluded/' 

"True, I should not need to. But who 
can resist his own demoniac impulses? 



They are stronger than we. That is an- 
other fancy of mine. I was standing up 
there near a large group of gentlemen. 
Scarcely a word was spoken that did not 
make me think, ' How healthy a short so- 
journ in a cell would be for you!' You 
may call it pure insanity, but I could not 
help thinking it. Two of them were talk- 
ing about eating, and one of them said he 
could not eat oysters without chablis. 1 To 
the penitentiary with you,' thought I. The 
other couldn't endure lobster-salad without 
sliced tomatoes, ' To the cell for a night or 
two,' I thought. Do you see that stout 
party there, with a blue wart on his cheek \ 
He said his interest in Perlhuhn & Co. 
brings him in thirteen hundred thalers every 
month. Every month ! 1 Into the cell, ' I 
thought; 4 to the cell with you!' And 
these women with the fabulous chignons, 
that grew on other people's heads, and with 
these puffed-out air-bags behind; don't you 
think a little solitude in a dark hole would 
be good for them ?" 
Ferdinand smiled. 

"You express, a little roughly and 
harshly for such a company as this, a 
thought something like Goethe's in the 
lines, ( Who never ate his bread with tears. ' 
It is, then, from pure philanthropy that you 
want to put all these people where they can 
see the serious side of life. But how do 
you know how many of these noble, finely- 
dressed, haughty people have already learn- 
ed to know the 'heavenly powers?' In 
such society, at a party like this, every one 
is masquerading." 

"All but us two," said Herr Groebler, 
nodding; "us and Herr Kronhorst; I was 
looking at him when he was talking with 
your sister, observing him closely, and he 
looked so frank and so sincerely benevolent, 
it did me good to see him. And as for you, 
Herr von Schott, you look so fearfully dis- 
mal — if it is not disrespectful to say it — that 
no one would say you were masquerading 
in a festal face. Perhaps I can cheer you 
up a little. I have news for you. " 

" Ah ! from Pomerania ?" 

"From Pomerania. The people there 
answered my questions very willingly. 
Philip Bonsart is not now in America; he 



116 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



lias been iu England for some time, at New- 
castle-upon-Tyne, where he has an agency 
for a firm in New York. His address is 
Dean street, Queen's Place, No. 13. He is 
still unmarried, they write me." 

Ferdinand looked at him almost in amaze- 
ment. It seemed to him as if something 
entirely strange to him had been spoken of, 
something he had been entirely unprepared 
for. Then he dropped his eyes to the floor, 
as if to collect himself and reflect upon his 
answer. At length he said, slowly and ab- 
sently, "In England; that would be much 
nearer than we thought. Very well, Groeb- 
ler; let me reflect what is best to be done 
now; we will speak of it again — see what a 
commotion there is there in the other par- 
lor — we will speak of it again; ' Dean 
street, Queen's Place, No. 13,' you said?" 

"That is the exact address," answered 
Groebler, looking at the movement in the 
next room to which Ferdinand's attention 
had been attracted. The various groups 
there were crowding together. 

To explain this movement, we must go 
back to Prince Gottlieb Anton. He had 
been at a whist-table in the room back of 
the dancing-hall, and at the last had been 
playing with Count Langendorf and two 
other gentlemen. After the last rubber was 
played, he rose. 

"Iam afraid," said he, wiping his fore- 
head, " that I have taken too much of that 
excellent punch, a la Romaine. I feel very 
warm and distressed for breath. Let us go 
into the open air for a little while, count/' 

"We can get it," answered Count Lan- 
gendorf, "by stepping into the conserva- 
tory. The air is purer, and it is very quiet; 
the music can scarcely be heard there. 
Herr Kronhorst has it arranged beautifully; 
there are some lovely places for a tete-a-tete 
in among the leaves. " 

He stepped forward to the high glass 
door, one side of which stood open, and led 
into the large conservatory, dimly lighted 
by lamps above; there was no one in it, and 
it seemed like a quiet world by itself, a 
tropical palm-land apart from the noise and 
excitement of the festival. 

The prince followed and the count passed 
on, talking, to the end of the conservatory, 



] where there was a light table, holding a 
smoking-set and surrounded with Japanese 
chairs, low stools, and rockers. 

The gentlemen seated themselves and 
each lighted a cigarette. Count Langen- 
dorf talked on, while the prince, contrary 
to his custom, was silent. At length, 
throwing away his cigarette and wiping his 
forehead again, he said: 

"Don't you feel a draught here? The 
door there cannot be closed." 

He pointed to a glass door that led from 
the conservatory to the great balcony in 
front of it. At the same time he rose and, 
approaching the door, said: 

" I was right; it is ajar. One of the 
guests must have gone out before us to get 
a breath of fresh air. Let us follow and 
take a turn or two on the balcony; it. will do 
me good. Come." 

They stepped out upon the broad bal- 
cony, with its parti-colored floor, winch was 
flooded with the light from the windows and 
the lamps at the door. The prince went 
straight across it toward the outer balus- 
trade. 

"The air blows over cursed sharp from 
the river, your highness," said Count Lan- 
gendorf; "you are so heated, are you not 
afraid of getting a rheumatism, or some- 
thing worse ?" 

" On the contrary, it does me good; I 
feel better." 

"But we are thinly dressed, and I can't 
say that this cold night air is agreeable to 
me. I will go, your highness; and if you 
will remain, I will send a servant with an 
overcoat. Allow me to do that." 

" Yery well; do so, my dear count." 

Count Langendorf fled from a possible 
cold back into the conservatory, while the 
prince, who must still have been feeling un- 
comfortable, and whose steps were some- 
what uncertain, as if from dizziness, walked 
on; having come to the balustrade he 
walked along beside it. Looking over he 
could see a dark balcony directly below the 
one where he stood; this lower one reached 
nearly to the bank of the river, whose steel- 
blue water shimmered through the night, 
receiving only the light that fell upon it 
from the villa; on the other side, the slender 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



117 



stems of the willows could be seen lightly 
rocking in the night wind. 

When Prince Gottlieb reache d the end of 
the balustrade, he stood at a rounded pro- 
jection of the balcony, to the left of which a 
flight of steps led down to the lower bal- 
cony. Here he thought he heard a low con- 
versation just under where he stood; sup- 
porting himself on the balustrade and look- 
ing over the edge, he saw two persons stand- 
ing at the foot of these stairs, or, rather, 
one, the form of a young man, was stand- 
ing, the other, a woman wrapped in a man- 
tle or shawl, was sitting on the lowest step. 
They could not have heard the prince, for 
they were absorbed in their conversation, 
and the prince's step, usually firm and 
heavy, was now weary and lingering; they 
continued speaking in an animated and ex- 
cited manner. Prince Gottlieb bent down 
over the balustrade as if he recognized the 
voices, and wanted to hear what they were 
saying. 

Whether he succeeded, and what he heard 
affected him so seriously, or whether it was 
a mere accident that the illness he had felt 
before, and the consequences of the change 
of temperature to which he had exposed 
himself now made themselves felt; at all 
events, when Count Langendorf returned 
after a while in his overcoat, and accom- 
panied by a servant carrying one for the 
prince, he at first- saw nothing of him; after 
looking around here and there, his eye hap- 
pened to fall on the inner curve of the pro- 
jection, and, to his terror, he saw the prince 
lying upon the floor. He sprang to him and 
tried to raise him and to get some expla- 
nation of what had happened; but the prince 
made not the slightest sound; he seemed to 
be paralyzed in every limb and entirely un- 
conscious. They succeeded, however, in 
raising him, and the servant knelt and sup- 
ported him while Count Langendorf hur- 
ried back into the rooms, and, meeting Herr 
Rronhorst, whispered to him what had hap- 
pened, and then looked among the guests 
for a physician. He soon found one and 
took him to the balcony where the prince 
still lay unconscious and in death-like rig- 
idity in the arms of the servant, who was 
now assisted by Herr Kronhorst. The four 



men carried him back to the conservatory 
and laid him down on a sofa. The physi- 
cian took off his cravat, and after feeling 
his pulse for along time, said: — 

"A fainting-fit, only a fainting-fit I hope. 
Tell the princess. Nothing can be done at 
present. It will be best to take him home, 
and there, perhaps, bleed him. The first 
thing to be done is to order his carriage; he 
can be carried from here out over the bal- 
cony, so that the company need know noth- 
ing of it, and the party need not be dis- 
turbed." 

"It is most sadly disturbed for me, at 
least," said Herr Kronhorst. "If this were 
a mere fainting-fit, he would already have 
recovered. It is a stroke of apoplexy, doc- 
tor.'* 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and 
bent down quickly to place his ear to the 
patient's mouth. The prince had turned 
his eyes, which had before been fixed, and 
moved his lips as if to speak; but he could 
make no intelligible sound. Kronhorst has- 
tened to tell the princess what had hap- 
pened and order the carriage, as well as to 
send servants to the balcony in front of the 
conservatory to carry the prince to his car- 
riage. He was as quiet as possible, but the 
attention of the company was attracted 
when he gave his arm to the princess, whose 
features plainly indicated strong emotion, led 
her into the conservatory, and closed the 
door behind them. This had caused the 
assembling of the excited gro?rps men- 
tioned. In a short time Herr Kronhorst 
returned and relieved the general suspense 
by announcing that the prince had fallen in 
a fainting-fit, which would probably be at- 
tended by no serious consequences, and 
that he had just been driven back to Ach- 
senstein with his wife and the physician, 
who had insisted on accompanying them as 
a matter of precaution. 

This satisfied the company. The players 
returned to their games, the young people 
to the dance, and the others to conversation, 
which was turned into a general exhaustive 
discussion of all kinds of f .linting-fits and 
like attacks; but the dreadful word apo- 
plexy was carefully avoided as if by a gen- 
eral tacit understanding, as if no one would 



113 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



be thought so wanting in tact as to utter 
the word in such a glad and brilliant assem- 
bly. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

STROKE UPON STROKE. 

And yet no one who thought for a mo- 
ment of the stout form of the prince, of his 
short neck, and his face flushed with luxu- 
rious living, could doubt that he would be 
liable to a stroke of apoplexy; and it was 
already perfectly clear to the physician as 
he sat beside the prince m the carriage and 
supported his paralyzed limbs, that such a 
stroke had actually fallen upon him, and 
that it was one of most alarming severity. 

And, in truth, the prince rallied very 
slowly after arriving at Achsenstein, where 
everything possible was done for him. One 
side of his body was paralyzed. His tongue 
stammered, and the functions of the brain 
were so disturbed that, in trying to call for 
what he wanted, he made the strangest mis- 
takes. Elsie did not leave him; she was 
the only one that could guess what he 
meant, when, with painful stammerings and 
impatient gestures, he called for things he 
could not possibly mean, asking for a horse 
or money when he wanted his handkerchief 
or his lemonade glass. It was a dreadfully 
exhausting task, the care of him, and Elsie 
slept scarcely two hours a night. And yet 
she kept her place firmly; nothing seemed 
too great for her persevering devotion, and 
no injunction of the physician to spare her- 
self more, no offer of Matilda or Irene to 
relieve her for a night, could induce her to 
leave the post to which her sense of duty 
assigned her. 

Only at times she stepped with a deep 
sigh to the window, and, clasping her hands 
convulsively, looked out in tears at the win- 
try valley below, at the bare trees, and the 
smoky and sooty city, with its roofs and 
gables and chimneys, and its dusky min- 



ster, no longer softened by the green veil of 
summer foliage. Perhaps, too, her eyes 
may have sought the cathedral, and rested 
upon the long building near it, the house of 
the man who might have been her friend 
and some comfort to her now, if he had 
only understood her, if he only would have 
understood her. Perhaps she thought an- 
grily and bitterly, and yet with the longing 
of a woman who feels, in spite of all that sur- 
rounds her and all offers of help, that she is 
alone, forsaken; and, in spite of all the as- 
surances of the physician, threatened by a 
dark experience, perhaps she thought long- 
ingly of this firm, ready, and inflexible 
man, now when she felt the need of a firm 
nature on which to rely; and then again 
angrily that in his mad passion he had 
made himself more an enemy than a friend 
and helper; 'because, notwithstanding the 
calm reason she had tried to make him lis- 
ten to, notwithstanding the kindness and 
sympathy she had shown for his misfortune, 
and the effort she had made to secure his 
future happiness, was now threatening to 
pry into her past life, with a selfish desire 
to humiliate her, and gain an ascendency 
over her; and to this Princess Elsie was the 
last to yield. 

For his words had indicated nothing else 
than this. She could not see that they 
were prompted by quite other feelings than 
a selfish desire for triumph; she could not 
understand the meaning that trembled 
through them— that he acknowedged him- 
self vanquished, and was begging only for 
peace, if only she would show him with one 
word of confidence that she understood him. 
But she had not understood; she had 
turned away in anger, and was suffering 
from the unspeakable bitterness with which 
her interpretation of his words had filled 
her. 

As the prince recovered, regaining the 
control of his limbs on one side, and being 
able to sit up and even tD walk across the 
room when supported by a strong arm, it 
was surprising how little gratitude he seem- 
ed' to feel for Elsie's faithful care. His 
eyes often rested upon her wibh an unmis- 
takable expression of resentment; when she 
spoke to him, he would often stare at her 



I 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



119 



and then turn away without trying to an- 
swer, as if he saw a perfect stranger before 
him, and could not understand what right 
she had to address hirn. This continued 
several days, until one day when Irene was 
admitted to the room; formerly her presence 
had always been agreeable to him; he liked 
to talk and jest with her, and had never 
been sparing of his words when he thought 
her in need of information on any subject 
whatever; and he had often made her pre- 
sents. He had never seemed to like the so- 
ciety of Irene's mother; his princely sensi- 
bilities were probably pained by such a re- 
minder of the plebeian connections of his 
wife. But now he stared at Irene with a 
peculiarly hostile expression. He would 
not answer when she spoke to him, but fol- 
lowed all her movements with the same 
angry glance. She soon withdrew, and the 
prince said to Elsie, in a surly tone : 

"You are very careless in regard to that 
child. Guard her better !" 

"Guard her?" cried Elsie, in surprise. 
* ' From what ? From whom ? " 

" From childish love affairs, secret meet- 
ings, and — but what does it matter to me ? 
It is your business." 

" Oh, I beg of you, go on, Gottlieb; what 
were you going to say?" said Elsie, anx- 
iously. 

The prince, who had spoken the words 
"your business" with a peculiar sharp em- 
phasis, shook his head and laid it back on 
his chair, frowning and closing his eyes. 

Elsie looked at him in anxiety. She had 
no key to his words. She could not know 
that a moment before the stroke he had 
been leaning from the balcony and listening 
to part of a conversation by two voices fa- 
miliar to him, a conversation which no one 
could suspect of any connection, even the 
most remote, with what had happened to 
him there. The only explanation Elsie 
could think of was that Irene had had a 
secret interview with William Kronhorst, 
and that the prince had found it out by 
some strange chance; and she resolved to 
have Matilda send Irene at once to some 
convent school beyond the border. 

In carrying out this plan, she met with as 
little opposition from Irene herself as she 



had from Matilda when it was first proposed. 
Having spoken again with Matilda and re- 
ceived her permission to talk with Irene, 
Elsie sent for the girl and explained to her 
that it seemed necessary, in order to com- 
plete her education, to take her away from 
her somewhat planless and irregular life in 
E. and at Achsenstein, and send her to the 
Convent of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart 
at B., in Belgium, that they might fill the 
gaps in her knowledge of necessary sub- 
jects. 

Although Irene could not have been pre- 
pared for this disclosure, she took it with 
the greatest calmness. Elsie's representa- 
tions of the advantages of the school, which 
was composed wholly of boarding pupils 
from the higher classes of society, seemed 
entirely unnecessary to reconcile her to the 
step which was to separate her for a whole 
year from her mother and the princess, 
This served greatly to quiet their apprehen- 
sions about the strength of Irene's attach- 
ment to William; it could not possibly be 
very strong when she consented so willingly 
to be sent away for such a length of time. 

When the matter was arranged, and the 
day for Irene's departure fixed, (her mother 
was to accompany her,) Elsie hoped the 
prince would explain the reasons for the 
warning he had given her. 

" You warned me in regard to Irene," she 
said to him, "and her mother has, there- 
fore, concluded to send her to a convent in 
B. She will start day after to-morrow." 

The prince looked at her with the stare 
now become habitual to him, without an- 
swering. 

" May she come to-morrow and bid you 
good-bye?'" 

" I hope you will spare me that I" he an- 
swered, frowning. 

"As you please. I thought you would 
desire it, as you liked Irene. It seems from 
what you said to me a short time ago about 
childish love affairs and secret meetings, 
that you must have found out something of 
which I do not know, and that must have 
entirely destroyed your affection and favor 
toward Irene. Will you not tell me," she 
added, as he did not answer, " what you 
have learned about Irene?" 



120 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



He measured her with the hard, hostile 
stare, now almost his only look for. her. At 
length he said, in a sarcastic tone, and with 
a malicious quiver about his Hps : — 

"No, my gracious lady, I will not tell 
you. It is best for me, a sick, broken-down 
man, to say nothing about it; and it cer- 
tainly is best for you. So do not disturb 
me with your questions. And as for Irene, 
I hope never to see her again." 

He closed his eyes and rested his head on 
the back of the chair, bringing into full re- 
lief his face, now uglier than ever, with its 
pale, sunken features. 

Elsie looked down at him, pale and anx- 
ious. Every word had gone to her heart 
like a dagger. What did he mean ? Could 
some fiendish accident have let him into se- 
crets she would rather have had discovered 
by any one else in the world? She was 
filled with anguish at the thought that it 
might be so, that it must be so; for other- 
wise his words would have had no meaning 
whatever. 

And what to do ? To leave him so. with 
only half an understanding of the matter, 
which was all he could have gained ? Or to 
disturb and torment him now in his illness 
with a full confession, with explanations of 
matters he would not comprehend — was it 
not wholly out of the question? No, she 
could not do it; she had not the courage. 
She went to the window and stood .there in 
her helplessness, looking down upon the 
dark city; she laid her hot forehead against 
the cold glass, and sought with her eyes the 
roof under which lived the man who might 
have helped her if he had only been willing 
to be her friend; who might have spoken 
for her to throw light upon the prince's tor- 
menting thoughts, and set right his dis- 
torted ideas. But he would not give her 
what she wanted, friendship, or help, or 
support; nothing but his stupid, idiotic 
passion, which filled her with anger, because 
it was only a selfish desire to humiliate and 
triumph over her. To be triumphed over 
by this man who was prying into her past 
life for that purpose, as he had insolently 
told her — the thought filled her eyes with 
angry tears as she looked from the night 
within to the darkening night without. 



With a blind, vain desire for revenge she 
threw upon Ferdinand the blame of the 
prince's mental suffering, as if he alone 
were responsible for the suffering he might 
have healed. 

It was the day before the one on which 
Irene was to start with her mother. She 
had made her preparations with a sort of 
defiant composure which apparently cov- 
ered a peculiar excitement, while she did 
not betray the slightest objection to being 
sent so far away. But when she came to 
take leave of Adele, she burst into tears as 
she threw her arms around her most trusted 
friend. Adele drew her down upon the 
sofa, and said: 

"What shall I do in my gloomy old house 
with my gloomy-faced brother, when I can- 
not now and then have a glimpse of your 
rosy face, Irene? You do not know how 
painful the parting is to me." 

1 ' Oh, I know, I know !" exclaimed Irene, 
clinging to her. "More painful than it is 
for my mother, who will now be all alone, 
or for my Aunt Elsie, who can send me 
away so easily that it nearly breaks my 
heart !" and she began to sob violently. 

"You must not blame them, Irene, or 
think there is any want of love in it. They 
are making a sacrifice for what their reason 
tells them is right, and why should they let 
you see how hard it is for them, and so 
make it a great deal harder for you to go ?" 

Irene pouted sulkily. 

"A sacrifice — their reason!" she said. 
"What they want is to separate me from 
William. And you call that reason, Adele ? 
I tell you it is unreason. For whatever they 
may do, William and I will not be sepa- 
rated!" 

» "Why, Irene, you frighten me by your 
violence; and it is the best proof that it is 
time, if not to put an ocean, at least, a good 
stretch of railroad between you, and see 
whether you will not think differently when 
you return after a year; that is such a long 
time at your age." 

" If I return I shall think just as I do to- 
day, dear Adele; you may be assured of 
that. If I return " 

" 'If' — what is the meaning of that em- 
phatic if?" 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



121 



Irene threw back her head haughtily. 

" Say, my wrathful little girl, what do 
you mean by that ?" 

"Nothing," answered Irene, avoiding 
Adele's eyes; "only that since they send 
nie away so cheerfully, I should not wonder 
if they should never want me back. " 

1 ' Oh, you are beside yourself, Irene. 
You are getting very unjust " 

"I am not unjust, dear Adele, believe 
me ; if I could only tell you all you would 
say yourself that — that — I am very unfor- 
tunate !" 

At these words she began to sob violently, 
and could not control herself. Adele put 
her arm around her and tried to comfort 
her. 

" And what is it that you cannot tell me, 
my dear child?" she said, at last, as Irene 
began to grow more quiet. . 

"O much, very much; if I were not 
strictly forbidden to tell it to any one on 
earth; and so I must bear it alone, all 
alone !" 

' ' All alone ? And must not William know 
either ?" 

Irene looked slyly at the floor. "Nor 
he either," she said, with a sigh. 

"Are you telling me the whole truth, 
now, Irene?" Adele asked. " William 
Kronhorst spoke to me of some mysterious 
letters that you had received " 

"He spoke to you of them ?" 

"He spoke of them; but you must not 
blame him. He supposed you had already 
taken me into your confidence." 

"Heavens! he could not have thought 
so; he knew how strictly I was forbidden 
to tell, and I told him only a little of what 
was in the letters, only as much as I had 
to, so that he might be prepared, if, some 
fine day — but I cannot say any more, I 
really cannot." 

" And you shall not," interrupted Adele. 
" I will not let you tell me any more. It 
wo aid be dishonorable in me to urge you to 
tell me what you think it your duty to be 
silent about." 

Irene embraced her friend, and, laying 
her forehead on Adele's shoulder, sobbed 
again. After a little, she sprang up, em- 
braced Adele again in an excited way, kiss- 



ed her cheeks and her hands, and hurrie cl 
away. 

When Adele told her brother of Irene's 
visit and her excited manner, Ferdinand 
was greatly surprised. 

"You seV he said, "that I am not 
chasing a phantom .of my own brain. What 
do those letters mean? From whom do 
they come ? Is it not reasonable to suppose 
that they come from some one who has 
claims upon Irene, and who is perhaps now 
preparing to assert his claim? And why 
are they sending Irene away ? What is that 
for ? To keep her in safety from this man?" 

Adele shook her head. 

" Why are they sending her away ? That, 
it seems to me, is plain enough. To sepa- 
rate her from William Kronhorst. " 

' 1 And why are they so anxious to separate 
her from William Kronhorst ? Why is Wil- 
liam's father, as you told me yourself after 
your conversation with him, why is he so 
firmly determined to oppose their mar- 
riage?" 

" That I do not know," answered Adele. 
"And," she added, with a sigh and a sor- 
rowful glance at Ferdinand's face, "it is 
not our business to search into it and brood 
over it." 

Ferdinand was silent. Bat, deeply af- 
fected by Adele's information, and plunged 
into the depths of passionate torment by 
this new confirmation of his suspicion, he 
said to himself, at length, in desperation : 

"But I must clear up this mystery; I 
must have light upon it, and peace !" 

Peace, as if he could have secured it so ! 

He resolved to go to England himself. 
He would himself hunt up Philip Bonsart; 
he would talk with him and compel him to 
speak. He went zealously to work to pre- 
pare for his journey. Bat two weeks passed 
before he could get his business so arranged 
as to ask for leave of absence; it was se- 
veral days more before he received it, so 
that some three weeks had elapsed since 
Irene's departure, and her mother had been 
at home again for some time, before he was 
ready to start. No one but Groebler knew 
the real object of his journey. 



122 FIRE 
CHAPTER XX. 

THE TELEGE AM, 

The princess had heard of Ferdinand's 
journey, but there had been nothing to 
cause her to attach any special significance 
to it. Some days after his departure, she 
was walking alone in the afternoon through 
the park that surrounded the castle. The 
castle was on a spur about half-way up a 
mountain; the park rose behind it, and lost 
itself above in the wood that covered the 
summit of the height. Elsie walked with a 
leisurely but elastic step through the broad, 
well-kept gravel walks, which sloped up- 
ward, now gradually, and now with a steep 
ascent. The day was mild; the soft air 
seemed a prophecy of the coming spring. 
The willows already began to show their 
fragrant catkins, and the hazel-bushes their 
red buds, the first harbingers of advancing 
vegetation. Elsie, indeed, took little notice 
of them. The serious expression which had 
long since become habitual to her face had 
to-day passed into one of deep sadness. 
The evening previous the prince had had 
something like another stroke; he had been 
taken with dizziness, and had fallen uncon- 
scious from his seat to the floor, before any 
one could reach him. Not until morning 
had he recovered enough to speak coher- 
ently. Elsie had insisted on watching with 
him through the night. - In the morning 
she had a talk with the physician, who had 
admitted that there was great danger to be 
feared from a repetition of these attacks. 
At this moment a notary was with the 
prince, who had called for one to make 
some alterations in his will, as he intimated. 

Alterations in his will ! It was a threat- 
ening word to Elsie. After the strangely 
cold and almost hostile manner he had re- 
cently assumed toward her, Elsie could not 
but fear that this boded little good to her. 
A bitter, scornful smile curved her lips as 
she thought that he would perhaps strike 
her out of his will entirely, that she would 
some time be a poor widow, burdened with 
a high-sounding title, with the curse of lu- 
dicrousness attaching to a high, pretentious 
position connected with extreme poverty. 



AND FLAME. 

It was true that, before her marriage, she 
had received assurances which were brilliant 
enough; when they had urged her to accept 
the prince's offer, they had explained the 
whole matter at length, and had dwelt with 
emphasis on its advantages; but was it 
really unalterable? If the prince would, 
could he not set the whole arrangement aside 
and take back what had been promised to 
her, leaving her only a small annual allow- 
ance, or even nothing at all, or make her 
dependent upon the bounty of her step-son, 
who would inherit his father's princely title 
and dignity ? She did not doubt that the 
prince could do so if he would; she did not 
doubt that an able lawyer could arrange it 
all as he might desire — women have such 
wonderful ideas of the elasticity of the law 
and of written contracts ! Occupied with 
this idea, she told herself bitterly that the 
reward of what she had done would be 
nothing but poverty and desertion; she said 
it with a sort of scornful triumph over her- 
self, as if she had deserved exactly that, as 
if it were the most righteous punishment 
that could have been visited on an unworthy 
woman; as if it were the just vengeance of 
Heaven. 

And she would do nothing to avert it; she 
would not waste a word on the affair; she 
would talk with no one about it. Indeed, 
she had no one with whom she could talk, 
no friend in the world, and she thought 
again, with anger and resentment, of the 
one whom, she believed, could have helped 
her. But . now she would rather be de- 
stroyed than turn to any one for help; she 
would be destroyed; it would be a punish- 
ment to him; he should reproach himself 
that it had been through his fault, through 
the folly and obstinacy that had separated 
them. 

And yet this anger and resentment were 
but the foam thrown up by quite other feel- 
ings — a feeling of utter helplessness, that 
seemed to banish her thoughts to him and 
keep them there. Since the day he had so 
angrily refused Irene's hand, she had in her 
inmost soul felt confidence in liim; she had 
begun to understand something of the depth 
of his nature; and if he had met her in her 
present mood, exhausted by the sleepless 



FERE AND FLAME. 



123 



night and tormented by the thought of her 
future, she might have had no words for him 
but a wild cry for help. 

She had gone some distance upward, and 
had come to where the park passed into the 
fir- wood that covered the upper part of the 
mountain, where the gravel walks of the 
park ran into narrow paths, leading among 
the high firs, when she came suddenly, at a 
turn in the path, upon a boy, lying a little 
way aside from the path, upon the mossy 
ground under a tall pine tree, and busily 
engaged with something upon the ground. 
Elsie approached him; the boy looked up 
into her face in surprise. Whether struck 
with astonishment at the beauty of this un- 
expected face, or embarrassed at being 
caught in an unlawful occupation, the boy 
was evidently disconcerted; he opened his 
mouth, as if to speak, but could not bring 
out a word. Elsie, tocf, looked fixedly and 
silently at him; the dark head and the flash- 
ing eyes had a peculiar attraction for her; 
there seemed to be something familiar, 
something she had already known wg]]., 
somewhere, in this face, which gradually 
took on an expression of bold defiance. 
At length she said: 

"What are you doing here, my boy ?" 

44 1 am catching squirrels," he answered, 
and raised a wire trap to show her; he had 
fastened it to a stake which he had driven 
into the ground, and placed it just over the 
root of a pine tree, so that an animal run- 
ning from the root up the tree would be 
caught in it. 

44 And do you dare do that — set traps for 
these poor little creatures in a stranger's 
park?" 

1 4 Certainly, " answered the boy. " Squir- 
rels are a nuisance; they eat the young buds 
from the trees. It is allowed to catch them 
anywhere. " 

4 'Is it? And are there squirrels here 
now ? I thought they stayed in their nests 
during the winter." 

The boy shook his head. 

44 They ought to stay in their nests. But, 
you see, squirrels are the most careless of 
all animals. They lay up a store of winter 
food in autumn, but never enough; so that 
by February it is all eaten up, and then 



they have to leave their nests, and run 
about in the pine woods to pick up pine- 
cones and get the seeds." 

44 You are a great naturalist I" said Elsie, 
smiling. 

44 Oh, I know all about the forest and the 
creatures that live in it. I catch one or 
more squirrels every day. I have five of 
them now at home, alive." 

44 Poor unfortunates I You ought to give 
them their freedom." 

The boy looked at her, smiled, and shook 
his head. 

4 4 1 shall sell them, " he said. 4 1 Will you 
buy one? I gave one to Fraulein Adele, 
and was going to give her another, but she 
didn't want any more. It is very pretty — 
so large ! Will you buy it ?" 

44 No, my boy. But who is Fraulo'n 
Adele? Fraulein von Schott?" 

4 4 Yes, the landrath's sister, Fraulein von 
Schott." 

44 Ah ! and you know her?" 

The boy nodded. 

44 And what is your name ? You have not 
been brought up in this part of the country 
— you speak another dialect; more as at my 
home," she added, to herself. 

44 1 do not belong here. I came from a 
long way off. I had to travel a whole day 
to get here, first on foot and then on the 
railroad. I was never on the railroad be- 
fore. How it rattles and flies along ! Have 
you ever been on the railroad? Oh, of 
course. How pretty you are ! Prettier 
than Fraulein Adele. But she is pretty, 
too. Do you know her ? She has been on 
the railroad often. And the landrath, he 
goes often, too. He went away just a few 
days ago; he hasn't come back yet, and he 
will not be here for several days. So much 
the better; I can stay here in the woods and 
catch squirrels; he would not let me; he 
makes me write in his office. It's so hard 
and so stupid to be tormented with that. 
And it's most all good for nothing — what I 
write. I write it wrong, and then the sec- 
retary throws it in the waste-basket. So 
what's the use of my being plagued with 
it?" 

While the boy had been talkin Elsie had 
been looking intently into his face, which 



124: 



PIKE AND FLAME. 



had grown more animated. Evidently he 
was so impressed by her beauty and the 
encouragement she gave him to talk freely, 
that he had lost the sullen and defiant man- 
ner he usually showed to strangers. 

"You were going to tell me who you are 
and where you came from," she interrupted. 

"Didn't I tell you? I came from Vel- 
linghaus, and my name is Carl Drausfeld. 
My father was the forester in Vellinghaus 
forest, and as he died, and my mother 
couldn't take care of us all, Herr von 
Schott had me come here and is going to 
take care of me. Fraulein Adele takes care 
of me, too; she is very, very good, Frau- 
lein Adele. Do you know her ?" 

" Then you are a son of Emil Drausfeld," 
said Elsie, surprised, and looking in his 
features for a resemblance to his father, of 
whom she had been vaguely reminded on 
first looking at the boy, without being able 
to define the recollection. " My poor 
boy !" she continued. " How noble it was 
in the landrath to relieve your mother of 
the care of you !" 

Carl looked up at her with something of 
hist usual defiant expression. He seemed 
not entirely to agree with the praise of the 
landrath, who kept him a prisoner at the 
writing-desk. He shook his head and an- 
swered: 

"Oh, he knows what he is about! He 
did not come only for friendship to my fa- 
ther, as my mother imagines- — that time 
when he came riding through the forest in 
the fog and snow, and my father had just 
died " 

" And why should he not? Your father 
was a good, brave man — you must always 
honor his memory — and he certainly was 
deserving that an old friend should make a 
journey even through snow and fog to see 
him once more " 

"Then did you know my father?" in- 
terrupted Carl. 

"Yes, I knew him well, and used to see 
him often, though it was many, many 
years ago." 

" Well, then I will tell you why Herr von 
Schott came that day when the weather was 
so bad and so cold, and we were all so sad. 
Shall I tell you ? I have told no one else. 



But, because you knew my father, and be- 
cause I would like some advice — will you 
give me some advice ?" 

During the conversation Carl had seated 
himself on the root of the tree to which his 
squirrel trap was fastened. He looked up 
with a peculiarly wary and searching glance 
at Elsie, who was standing with one foot on 
the root and her hands resting on the handle 
of her parasol, looking down at him with an 
expression of intense interest in ail his talk. 

" Give you advice ? Certainly, with plea- 
sure; and I would gladly give you some- 
thing more than that, something for your 
mother and your brothers and sisters. But 
tell me first what you were going to say." 

" Will you never, never tell the landrath, 
truly ? Will you promise me that ? " 

" I will promise it." 

"Then make a cross on my hand," he 
said, extending his palm. 

Elsie made the symbol, which she remem- 
bered had been considered in her childish 
plays as setting' the seal of sacred obligation 
to a promise. 

" Then I will tell you why the landrath 
came away out there to our house. He 
came for some letters. He stormily de 
manded some letters from my mother. " 

* ' Letters ? What letters ? " 

"Letters my father had received from 
America, and others that he said were writ- 
ten in a lady's hand." 

"Ah!" cried Elsie, in terror, "and the 
letters were there, and he received them?" 

"They were there, but he did not receive 
them. My mother was going to give them 
to him, right away, for nothing. She did 
not know where they were, but she told 
him he might look in my father's room, in 
the writing-desk, and see whether he could 
find them. Wasn't that foolish to give 
them up so ? • When he was so anxious and 
excited about them, and had taken such a 
long journey through the snow to get them, 
how much they must have been worth to 
him ! Must they not be very, very valu- 
able ? And wasn't it foolish in my mother 
to give them up so, for nothing ?" 

" Go on, go on," said Elsie, in suspense. 
" Then he did not find them ? " 

" No. I could not talk with my mother 



FIRE AND. FLAME. 



123 



about it, she was too sorrowful; it was all 
the same to her, uow my father was dead. 
So I took the letters aud kept them. While 
Herr vou Sehott was searehiug iu my fa- 
ther's room, I ran into the alcove; they 
were there. I knew my father kept some 
letters locked up in the closet near his bed. 
I hurried and took the key from his pocket 
and got the letters, and carried them up 
stairs and hid them in my straw bed under 
my pillow. Then I took the keys to Herr 
von Schott, and thought, now you may 
look!" 

Elsie took a long breath. 

"And where are they, where are those 
letters?" she cried, in desperation at the 
thought that Emil Drausfeld had not at 
once burned her letters to him, as she had 
so expressly begged him to do, but had 
saved them — she had believed so firmly in 
this man's loyalty, and he, too, had deceived 
her! 

"Where are they?" answered Carl. 
"They are safe. I have them. I kept them 
from everybody and brought them with 
me here. I thought I would tell Herr von 
Schott that I had them ; and then I could 
find out what they were worth to him, and 
what he would pay us, pay my mother for 
them — my mother is so poor — oughtn't he 
to pay for them — wasn't that right — we are 
so poor?" 

"And then ? Go on!" said Elsie, eagerly. 

"And then, when I was here, *I did not 
know how to begin. I wanted to speak to 
Fraulein Adele, but she would have told 
her brother right off, and instead of giving 
me money for the letters, he would have 
taken them away from me; perhaps he would 
have punished me for taking them and 
keeping them hidden so long from him. 
Don't you think he might be very angry if 
he should hear of it now ? I am afraid so; 
I am afraid of him. And so I don't know 
what to do. Give me your advice, will 
you?" 

" Certainly I will, Carl. You must not 
give him the letters; no, never, for Heaven's 
sake ! They are letters that were not -writ- 
ten for him, but to your dead father, to him 
alone. It was wrong in your father not to 
burn them. But it would be worse, very I 



much worse, in you to sell them, and so be- 
tray their contents for money, to the very 
last people who ought to know them. Do 
you understand V 

Carl took his eyes from her face and fas- 
tened them upon the ground. 

"But," he said, half aloud, "no one 
would give me money for old letters unless 
he had some interest in knowing what was 
in them." 

"Money!" exclaimed Elsie. "You are 
detestable ! Would you be dishonorable 
for money? How can such a child be so 
greedy for money?" 

"You can do nothing without money, 
buy nothing, go nowhere you would like 
to." 

" And where would you like to go if you 
had money?" 

" I would like to go to the sea-shore and 
go on a ship." 

"Ah! you would?" 

Carl was silent for a while, keeping his 
eyes on her face with a dissatisfied look. 

"Yes," he said, " I would like it. But I 
would give most of the money to my mo- 
ther; she has so little; and it makes her so 
unhappy; she has so little for my brothers 
and sisters; often they have no shoes to 
put on to go to church on Sundays," and 
the boy broke into a sudden fit of weep- 
ing. 

Elsie laid her hand on his shoulder. 

"You are a good boy, Carl; I see that 
you are. I know you will be honest. You 
will bring me the letters and I will burn 
them. You will bring them to me, not for 
money, for that would be a contemptible 
trade — as you must see yourself — unworthy 
of you and of me. But I will reward you 
for acting honorably. I will give you some- 
thing — a nice watch, and then we will both 
have a treaty together. Bun home now and 
bring me the letters at once; come with 
them to the castle down there. Come right 
in; I will tell the porter to watch for you 
and bring you at once to me. And then we 
will sit down together, and you shall write a 
few lines to your mother and tell her that 
you have found a friend of your father's, 
who has given you a present for her; and I 
will put one hundred thalers in the letter 



126 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



and we will send it to your mother. Would 
you like that?" 

Carl raised his tearful eyes with an inde- 
scribable look of gratitude. 

" Will you really do that ? One hundred 
thalers ? Heavens, how good you are ! 
Will you do it ? I will bring you the let- 
ters — right away ! I will bring <them to the 
castle!" 

He had already sprung up and was about 
to hurry away. Then, half turning back, he 
asked her: 

"Are you the princess? I believe you 
are the princess. And you will give me a 
watch?" 

"I am the princess. Now hurry. Auf 
Wieclersehen 

He sprang away, down the mountain, 
taking a straight course through the trees 
and thickets, without troubling himself 
about the park-paths. In a few moments 
he had disappeared. 

Elsie stood and looked after him. But 
her thoughts did not follow him; they were 
fixed on the crushing fact, that her secret 
was suspected, unravelled, discovered, that 
Ferdinand had discovered it, that he was 
not contented with knowing it, but was 
seeking for proofs of it, proofs to destroy 
her. To destroy her ! That, indeed, he 
would be obliged to do if he were to re- 
gain his rights — his sacred, unquestionable 
rights, which she had most wickedly and 
recklessly invaded, against which she had 
committed a crime that cried to Heaven for 
vengeance ! Why should he not destroy 
her ? Who in the world could expect him 
to spare her ? What was it to him if she 
were destroyed ? 

And yet, it seemed to her as if she had 
suddenly trodden upon a serpent. As if a 
horrible treason were hissing in her face. 
Yes, it was horrible ! He had talked to her 
of his love! And all the time he was 
searching behind her back for means to de- 
stroy her. He had assumed the role of a 
passionate lover while he had really been 
playing the part of a spy. For his rights ! 
For the sake of his inheritance ! He had 
lied and played the hypocrite to ensnare 
her, to draw a confession from her ! And 
all this to get his money — his wretched, 



miserable, devilish money ! Or was he no* 
lying when he professed to love her ? Had 
he been moved by that only in searching- 
after her secret, in hunting the proofs, the 
means to her destruction ? Had it driven 
him to adopt blindly any measures, even 
the most ignoble, to gain power over her ? 

Elsie's head swam, and her heart was 
filled with wild tumult. She was too excited 
to reflect as to who or what could • have be- 
trayed her secret to him— how he could 
have come upon the track of the letters she 
had written years ago to Emil Drausfeld. 
She did not ask herself that. She thought 
only of the terrible revelation of what she 
called Ferdinand's treachery and unfathom- 
able business, and to which she felt herself 
to be a sacrifice. And that just at this time 
when her feelings had begun to change, 
when her thoughts had turned to him so 
constantly as the one able to help her. She 
thought of nothing else, and felt only the 
raging anger and contempt which tossed in 
her heart like foaming waves, over a horri- 
ble sense of utter helplessness. 

Her steps tottered and trembled as she 
descended the mountain and approached 
the castle. She was incapable of consider- 
ing calmly what was to be done against such 
an enemy; she could only say, " Oh, he has 
the right. And I am justly served. Why 
should not a deceiver be deceived ? Why 
not pretend love to outwit, ensnare, and de- 
stroy her ? Why am I too good to be treat- 
ed so ? What does a woman that has thrown 
herself away deserve but to be punished 
and destroyed?" 

And yet it seemed to her that the heavens 
must grow dark and day turn to night at 
the revelation that he, even he, could play 
such a part ! 

So she at last arrived home. It was al- 
ready deep twilight in the castle. They told 
her the lawyer was still with the prince. 
The maid-of -honor came and expressed her 
anxiety that this long interview might se- 
riously excite and injure the prince. She 
did not listen. She left it to the young 
lady to go herself and look after him. Then 
she sent a servant to the city after her sis- 
ter. She wanted to see her that evening. 

Then the porter, with whom she had 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



127 



spoken as she returned, came itf., bringing 
Carl. The boy laid his cap on the carpet 
near the door, and drew a little packet of 
yellow letters from the breast pocket of his 
jacket. 

"There are the letters," he said. 

She untied the cord that held them to- 
gether and took them to the fireplace. By 
the light of the glowing coals she looked 
them over. There were not many of them, 
perhaps eight or ten, not more than a dozen 
at the most. They were short, too, most of 
them covering only the first page of the 
sheet. After looking them through she 
laid them upon the coals; they blazed up 
and filled the room with light. Carl looked 
wonderingly around at the splendidly fur- 
nished apartment, which the sudden blaze 
revealed to him; but it did not last long; the 
flames died away and the room was again in 
twilight. The princess turned and asked 
him: 

" Did you read the letters ?" 

"I looked into them sometimes. The 
letters in the lady's hand told about a 
child, what it was doing, where it was, what 
it had learned, that it had been sick of scar- 
let fever, and such things; and that did not 
interest me. The other told about all sorts 
of things in America that I didn't under- 
stand, and so I didn't read • much in those 
either." 

"So much the better. And what you 
did read you may as well forget; it is 
not worth the trouble of remembering, and 
it is all about things of no consequence, 
Carl." 

Thereupon she rang for a light; when 
it was brought she had it placed upon 
the writing-table and seated Carl there 
to write his letter. It was some time be- 
fore he finished. First he had to breathe 
on his benumbed hands to warm them; 
then admire the costly and elegant writ- 
ing materials; and after he had success- 
fully finished the " Dear Mother," he could 
bring nothing out of the excitement and 
confusion of his thoughts that would make 
a good beginning. At length Elsie, who 
had been walking up and down, stepped to 
him and dictated the letter. She had him : 
close with the words: " When you answer, . 
9 



' say nothing of this matter; the lady does 
i not wish anything said about it." 

The letter was finished at last. Elsie 
opened a drawer of her writing-desk and 
took out a bank-note, which she folded into 
the letter. She placed five seals on the en- 
velope, and asked Carl for his mother's exact 
address. While she was writing it the floor 
seemed to burn under Carl's feet. He 
seized the letter as soon as she had finished 
to rush with it to the post-office. 

" Wait, wait, my boy. You must have 
money for the postage, and do not forget to 
take a receipt. " 

" Oh, I know, I know; I often carry Herr 
von Schott's letters to the post-office. " He 
had already reached the door with his letter. 

"But you are running away and forget- 
ting your watch !" 

"Oh, the watch !" said Carl, hesitating; 
"yes, the watch !" 

" Which you had forgotten in your haste 
to give your mother pleasure. That is a 
sign that you have a good heart. You shall 
have one so much the nicer. My servant 
shall go with you and buy one for you down 
in the city. " 

She rang and sent for the valet; when 
he appeared, she commissioned him to go 
to the city with the boy and buy him a good 
silver watch which he was to select for him- 
self. Then she gave Carl her hand and 
said: 

"Now you may go, and whenever you 
need advice again come to me, will you?" 

Carl nodded and was about to go, when, 
as if something had suddenly occurred to 
him, he turned back again, and with a face 
blazing red, stammered, in confusion, "I 
thank you, too!" Then, his face beaming 
with satisfaction that he had remembered 
this duty of courtesy in time and had suc- 
cessfully discharged it, he went away in 
high spirits, rushing on down the steps 
ahead of the servant. 

Elsie turned back to the fireplace, and 
gazed at the coals where the ashes of the 
burned papers still lay. Her excitement 
was over; in its place had come a defiant 
but still resignation to fate; he had the 
right, she told herself again, " Let him 
claim his right. What does it matter about 



128 FIBE 

me ? What can come to me that I have not 
deserved ? Have I a right to reproach him 
with lying and deception? I of all the 
world?" 

She sank into a long reverie. It was 
strange that she could not keep this last 
thought, so simple and clear, in mind, could 
not resign herself to this logic. With any 
one else she could, but not with him. That 
he could have deceived her so and tried to 
entrap her by professing affection, there 
was something in it that overcame her, that 
extinguished all the light of life and joy of 
existence left to her. 

And if it had not been so, if it had not 
so terribly crushed all her life and courage, 
as if the world had never before seen such 
an example of deception, then perhaps she 
would have given more attention to the 
thought that lay heavy upon her mind and 
yet which she had not the courage or the 
energy to look steadily in the face — the 
thought that the end of it all would be that 
she would be compelled to seek peace with 
Ferdinand, to tell him everything frankly, 
and then say : 

" Now, do as you will; trample me under 
foot, if you will!" 

Suddenly steps were heard outside in the 
hall, the door was suddenly thrown open 
and Matilda rushed in, evidently in the 
greatest excitement. 

" What has happened, what is the matter, 
Matilda?" said Elsie, stepping up to her. 

"There, read," said Matilda, out of 
breath. "Heavens, how I ran up the long 
avenue; I am suffocating !" 

' ' She sank, panting, into a chair near the 
fireplace, while Elsie stepped quickly to the 
light with the paper. It was a telegram, 
and ran: 

"Mrs. Major Schott, E.: 

Your daughter, Irene, disappeared from 
the convent this morning. She seems to 
have been abducted by a strange man, of 
middle age, who was observed here yester- 
day. Will give particulars in a letter. 

{Signed) The Principal." 

"What do you say to that?" cried Ma- 
tilda, as Elsie dropped the paper from her 
trembling hands. 



AND FLAME. 

"It is dreadful, dreadful !" she exclaimed, 
her eyes resting wide and fixed upon her 
sister and her chest heaving. 

"Abducted! She was abducted! And 
by whom? William Kronhorst is here; I 
saw him pass to-day. It cannot be he. ' A 
man of middle age,' the despatch says." 

"No, it is not he," whispered Elsie, in a 
scarcely audible voice, "it is another man, 
and I know, I know who it is !" 

"You know?" 

"I know. It is Ferdinand von Schott." 

"What! Ferdinand von Schott, cousin 
Ferdinand? In Heaven's name, Elsie, I 
beg of you, for what " 

" Do you not see, can you not see through 
it?" 

"You think because he has gone away 
without letting any one know where, or for 
what " 

"No, no; but because he, he alone would 
be capable of the deed, he alone would have 
an interest in causing her disappearance, in 
putting her out of the world, in murder- 
ing " 

" Oh, my God, Elsie, you are raving !'* 

And, indeed, she was rushing up and 
down the great room like a lunatic. 

" He knows, he has found out everything. 
He has known a long, long time, that Irene 
is not your daughter, that we have cheated 
him out of his inheritance, and he has done 
everything to find proofs of it He did not 
succeed; the proofs he sought are lying 
there in the ashes. Now he has taken the 
last, extreme measure; he has carried Irene 
off; he has murdered her, or sent her over 
the ocean " 

"My God, what do I hear?" stammered 
Matilda, clasping her hands. " For Heaven's 
sake, tell me how you learned all this !" 

Elsie told in hasty, broken sentences of 
her meeting with Carl, the boy's explana- 
tion of the object of Ferdinand's visit to 
Vellinghaus, but in the midst of it she stop- 
ped, clasped her hands, and cried despair- 
ingly: 

"Oh! my God! my God! he will kill 
her ! that horrible man will kill her !" 

She hurried to the bell and pulled it vio- 
lently. When the servant came in she or- 
dered him to have her carriage brought 



FIEE AXD FLAME. 



129 



around; then, in uncontrollable excitement, 
expressing itself in detached and wild ex- 
clamations, she walked rapidly back and 
forth through the room. Her sister seemed 
completely subdued by her stormy manner, 
so that she no longer expressed any idea of 
her own, but listened only to Elsie and 
echoed her thoughts; she was entirely car- 
ried away with the current of Elsie's pas- 
sionate conclusions; she had no longer any 
doubt that it was a proved and settled thing 
— Ferdinand von Schott had carried off and 
murdered Irene ! 

"But where will you go, what will you 
do?" asked Matilda, when the servant came 
in to announce that the carriage was ready, 
and to ask whether he should call the maid- 
of-honor. 

" Bring me my hat and cloak yourself — 
or a shawl — and do not disturb the young 
lady," answered Elsie, and when he was 
gone she turned to Matilda. 

" Do you think I will take it all quietly 
and leave Irene to her fate ? Do you think 
I will not try to save her from his hands, or 
at least to punish him for his crime — to 
send a spy after him, as he himself has 
played the spy on me ?" 

"You will start off at once and follow 
him?" 

"I? No! Suppose I should, what 
power could I have ? I will send some one 
after him that will have some authority. 
Come !" 

Elsie threw on the wrap the servant 
brought, and Matilda rose, drawing up her 
cloak, which had slipped from her shoul- 
ders. 

"Follow us," said Elsie to the servant, 
and as she stepped into the carriage, she or- 
dered the coachman to drive to Police-In- 
spector Groebler's. 

As the carriage rolled down the long ave- 
nue, both were silent. Matilda's cooler re- 
flection, however, suggested the thought 
that, in consequence probably of her long 
attendance on the prince, Elsie had fallen 
into an excitable state of mind, and hence 
these horrible thoughts of crime and rnur- 
der, which were too wild to stand the test 
of sober reflection. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

AT HERR GROEBLER'S. 

In a few moments the carriage stopped at 
an old house in a narrow street not far 
from the cathedral, where Herr Grobler had 
found shelter for himself, his wife, and 
two or three children of tender age, the 
"lambs" before alluded to. 

"You had better go in with me," said 
Elsie to her sister; "or, no; the coachman 
can take you home after I get out; I would 
rather see the man alone; you can drive 
home and send the carriage back." 

Matilda made no objection, and Elsie ■ 
alighted, sent her servant forward, and then 
ascended the steps to the rooms of the po- 
lice inspector, while the carriage drove on. 

The appearance of the princess at Herr 
Groebler's modest dwelling caused some 
excitement. Frau Theresa anxiously with- 
drew with her lambs to the innermost apart- 
ment, their toilets not being in court order. 
The servant-girl had to take the hall-lamp, 
with an apology, to light Elsie into Herr 
Groebler's office, and then vanish in haste 
to find some better light. 

In the meantime Elsie looked around the 
dimly-lighted apartment. It was a neat, 
pleasantly furnished little room, evidently 
arranged by some one with a taste for flow- 
ers, pictures, and other pleasant little orna- 
ments. The occupant, too, seemed to have 
taken care that there should be nothing 
more to remind one of his business than 
was absolutely unavoidable. His papers 
were stowed away in two cases with green 
curtains, and on the writing-desk lay only 
•some open letters and official documents. 

Herr Groebler, who came in buttoning 
the coat for which he had just exchanged 
his dressing-gown, seemed to be in some 
haste, and did not conceal the excited curi- 
osity this unexpected visit caused him. He 
had too much tact to ask the princess to be 
seated, but waited until she should do him 
the honor. She seated herself on the hair- 
cloth sofa, and, throwing back her veil, be- 
gan: 

"Let us be seated, Herr Groebler; I 
want to talk with you. I come to you with 



130 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



confidence, although I have seen yon but 
little. But for years I have heard you 
spoken of as a man upon whom reliance 
can be placed. And I come to place confi- 
dence in yQji as a friend. " 

If Herr Groebler could have been guilty 
of the juvenile weakness of blushing, his 
cheeks would probably have taken on a 
deeper tinge. It was so humiliating that 
the woman against whom he had twice in 
his life played the part of a spy should now 
come to confide in him as a friend ! 

He bowed and seated himself in silence 
opposite to her, at his writing-desk. 

" I know that I can rely upon you," she 
continued; * ' that your sense of duty and 
honor will lead you to do your best, even 
though your services may be required in 
opposition to your personal sympathies, 
against people near to you, and whom you 
have heretofore valued and honored " 

Herr Groebler's eyes, which were fixed 
sharply on her features, expanded a little. 

" Ah ! against people near to me ? What 
does your highness mean ?" 

Elsie did not answer, because the servant- 
girl just then stepped in with a large lamp, 
which she placed on the table near the sofa. 
When she had gone, Elsie handed the tele- 
gram to Groebler. 

"Read that !" she said. . 

He read it and looked up in surprise. 

" That is strange and, for you, dreadful 
news 1" 

There was a peculiar emphasis in the 
words " for you," and a peculiar sharpness 
in the glance he fixed upon her dark eyes. 

She did not seem to notice it, but went on 
hastily: "How dreadful, you shall hear. 
Irene was not carried off by some man that 
loves her and wanted to marry her; it was 
by a 'man of middle age,' the despatch 
says; and this man wants to make way with 
Irene, to put her out of his own way, out 
of the world— God knows what ! And this 
man is your colleague, your chief, your 
landrath " 

" Ah ! Herr von Schott?" cried Groebler, 
entirely losing his official composure and 
jumping up. 

"Herr von Schott!" repeated Elsie, 
firmly. " You will soon be convinced that 



this is the case. You know, do you not, 
that he was destined to be the heir of the 
banker Schott, in H. ?" 

Herr Groebler nodded. 

"Well, he was not. When the banker 
died, there was no will. The property went 
to Irene, as the daughter of his nearest re- 
lative, of Major Schott. Ferdinand von 
Schott and his sister received nothing. 
Now Ferdinand sruspects that Irene is not 
the major's daughter, is, therefore, not the 
lawful heir, and hence the property right- 
fully belongs to him. He has spared no 
pains in the attempt to find proofs of it; but 
he has failed to find them. And since he 
has not succeeded in putting her out of his 
way by this means, he has resorted to others 
— he has followed her and carried her 
away?" 

Elsie spoke in a tone of passionate cer- 
tainty — with the emotion of a strong soul 
that has discovered a baseness past all for- 
giveness in one nearer to it than other men, 
one who has not only committed the base- 
ness, but in doing it has robbed that soul 
of its last faith in the world and in human- 
ity. And by speaking in this tone of cer- 
tainty she entirely misled Herr Groebler; 
while she was speaking he yielded fully to 
the impression that it was all as she said, 
that his chief and friend was in reality the 
death-deserving criminal that Elsie saw in 
him. It was true — who knew better than 
he, Groebler? — that Ferdinand did really 
see in Irene a false heiress, who had wronged 
him out of what should have been his; it 
was true that he had been absent several 
days; it was true that the despatch said " a 
middle-aged man." To him, indeed, Fer- 
dinand had professed quite a different ob- 
ject in taking the journey; but might he 
not have deceived him ? Or, if not, might 
he not have taken a new resolve, have 
changed his plans while on the way ? Was 
it not possible that, having seen Philip Bon- 
sart and talked with him without gaining 
anything, he had now resorted, in despera- 
tion, to the most extreme measures ? 

Herr Groebler passed his hand over his 
forehead and looked at the floor in silence. 

"And now," continued Elsie, as he did 
not answer, " now I come to you. I am 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



131 



but a weak woman and cannot go to contend 
with this man. I cannot pursue him to 
prevent a crime, and I have no one to send. 
You are the only one that can save Irene. 
If you will go, I will furnish all the money 
you need; I will pay you liberally if you 
get there soon enough to save her. Have 
no scruples about anything if they will 
stand in the way of this purpose. I am 
afraid of nothing. I will not shun any tiring 
to accomplish it. Even if the whole affair 
were to come before the courts, I would not 
shrink from the publicity; I would go for- 
ward as a witness. 

"That, your highness," answered Groeb- 
ler, lifting his eyes to her face, and speak- 
ing slowly and emphatically, " that you 
could not do ! " 

"Could not? Why not?" asked Elsie, 
defiantly. "How do you know what I 
could do, what I would do, to what I would 
subject myself, to put an end to a cruel, 
unendurable situation ? But that is not the 
question now. I have told you that Irene 
has been carried away, that you are the only 
one I can send to save her and bring her 
back, and every minute is precious. Will 
you do as your position binds you to do, 
and go at once? — will you? Otherwise, I 
must myself see what I can do — I must go 
myself. And if I must, I will go to-night !" 

' ' Compose yourself, your highness," an- 
swered Groebler, softly and thoughtfully, 
as if weighing his words. "It is not ex- 
actly my duty to go beyond our own boun- 
daries on such an errand without first re- 
ceiving instructions from the authorities. 
But an order can be obtained by telegraph, 
and I will consider it. Still, in order that 
no precious time may be lost while I am 
considering, I will go at once and send an 
agent this evening, one that will be the best 
we could possibly find for this business, and 
one whose zeal will far surpass mine. Will 
that satisfy you?" 

" Who is this zealous officer ?" 

"You know," answered Groebler, smil- 
ing, "that the police owe their most bril- 
liant successes to people whose relation to 
us is not known, and who, from that very 
fact, are able to accomplish more." 

" A secret agent, then ?" 



"We will call him so.". 

"Very well, then. You are, of course, 
sure of his discretion, in case discretion 
can avail to keep the whole matter private ?" 

" Perfectly sure." 

"Then do not delay to talk with him," 
said Elsie, rising. "And when shall I 
know whether you yourself are going? 
You can send word to my sister, who lives 
so much nearer to you, and I shall hear at 
once through her. I should naturally dis- 
trust you. Herr von Schott is your princi- 
pal, or, at least — I do not know whether he 
is officially your chief — your colleague. On 
that account you would feel like shielding 
him. But with men of your calling " 

"The bloodhound instinct tramples on 
all considerations of friendship and frater- 
nity, is what you were going to say," inter- 
rupted Groebler, with a somewhat bitter 
smile. 

"Not exactly that; I was going to say 
that, with men of your calling, the sense of 
legal right must be developed to such keen- 
ness and strength that such considerations 
cannot pervert it, and that your professional 
honor consists in the fact that you cannot 
be moved by entreaties or bribes. Hence 
I trust you. Will you help me?" 

"I will do what I can, your highness; I 
give you my word upon it." 

"Do you need anything to show that you 
are authorized ?" 

" I think not. Bat leave the telegram in 
my hands." 

" As you think best. And my sister will 
give you any farther authority that you may 
need." 

Groebler bowed, and Elsie drew down 
her veil again and turned to go. Ha gave 
her his arm and conducted her through the 
now brilliantly-lighted hall, where her ser- 
vant was waiting, and down the stairs to 
the carriage, which had returned from her 
sister's, and now carried her swiftly out of 
sight. 

Groebler returned to his room, and stood 
with his arms folded across his chest, and 
his small, twinkling eyes fixed up^n the 
place where Elsie had been sitting. He had 
need of time to come to himself again, after 
this storm of feminine passion which had 



132 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



swept over him and carried him away into 
wild imaginations of horrible crime — imagi- 
nations in which Elsie's excited mind had re- 
velled, as if she could thereby revenge her- 
self for the wound given her by Carl's re- 
velations, imaginations which Groebler must 
very soon reduce to plain common sense. 

But only after long and cool deliberation 
— after mature reflection on the matter still 
so dark and mysterious, "She confided in 
me, that proud woman," he said to himself, 
"but what did she confide to me? the crime 
of which she believed Ferdinand von Schott 
capable. She confided her belief in that to 
me. But nothing more, not a word of all 
those mysteries. Did she intimate, by a sin- 
gle word, whether this Fraulein Irene is.her 
sister's child or hers ? Whether Ferdinand 
von Schott is right or not? No; but, Groe- 
bler, you did not ask her. Perhaps she was 
ready to tell the whole truth; she was ex- 
cited enough to tell the whole, to conceal 
nothing. But you did not inquire. To be 
sure, it is nothing to you; you had no rea- 
son to trouble yourself about it, no right to 
catechise her. She came to make an accusa- 
tion, and you had only to do with what facts 
she presented. You are not an inquisitor 
and she not a defendant. But yet, it was a 
little stupid of you, it certainly was. You 
might have asked why she should be so be- 
side herself, as the matter primarily con- 
cerned Frau Matilda Schott; and why the 
mother did not herself come. You might 
have asked that outright, instead of putting 
in that sly innuendo which she did not 
understand." 

After Groebler had ended this monologue 
he remained standing for some time motion- 
less. Then he exclaimed: " I'll be hanged 
if I can see into it. But this much is cer- 
tain: to regain an inheritance out of which 
he had been swindled, Ferdinand von Schott 
would never commit a crime. He is not the 
man for that; he is the last man to commit 
such a crime. But there is something more 
about it than he shows to me. He is ab- 
sorbed, and swallowed up— he is complete- 
ly lost in this matter as a reasonable man 
never would be. But what is not possible 
with us poor human devils, for every one of 
us has a demon in him. Perhaps he has 



gone to say to this poor Fraulein Irene: you 
are not Frau Schott's daughter. You have 
been used to get wrongful possession of an 
estate. And the poor child has consented, 
in her desperation, to leave these people that 
have so shamefully used her existence for 
their own profit, and to disappear forever 
for them. After all, that is the most proba- 
ble supposition." 

Herr Groebler sighed. Then he took 
down his cloak that hung behind the door, 
wrapped himself slowly and carefully in it, 
took up the telegram, which he put into his 
pocket, and left the house. 

He passed through the brilliantly lighted 
streets of the city, till he emerged from the 
narrow, irregular streets of the old part into 
a fine broad avenue with new buildings, and 
stopped before a house at the first corner. 

It was a large, fine building; the entrance 
and the windows of the first story were bril- 
liantly lighted; it was the club-house of the 
city, and at this hour most of the gentlemen 
of the better class of society were assem- 
bled there. Herr Groebler had had the 
honor to be elected by a considerable ma- 
jority of white balls to the fortunate circle 
that were here repaid every evening for the 
burdens of the day with Moselle wine, ci- 
gars, and lively conversation with congenial 
friends. Herr Groebler ascended the stairs, 
hung his cloak among innumerable others in 
the ante-room, and passed into the hall, 
which was filled with tobacco-smoke. 

Herr Groebler passed around the room, 
shaking hands and exchanging a few words 
with friends here and there, then glided un- 
noticed into a smaller room in the rear, 
where were several tables covered with a 
formidable array of newspapers. A young 
man was sitting on a stool in one corner, 
smoking a cigar. The inevitable glass stood 
before him, and he seemed to be absorbed 
in the daily paper he held in his hand. 

In a moment Herr Groebler was seated 
beside him. 

" Ah ! " exclaimed the young man, looking 
up, "you come up, Herr Groebler, as if 
you were just going to lay your policeman's 
hand upon me." 

" Perhaps I shall, Herr Kronhorst. M 

"Really?- Well, now, who is safe from 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



133 



you?" answered William Kronhorst. "What 
crime have I committed? My conscience 
doesn't accuse me of any, unless you call it 
one to read this paper, which is, to be sure, 
filled with stupid stuff that it ought to be 
a crime to read." 

"You have committed no crime, Herr 
Kronhorst, and if I should lay hands on you, 
it would only be with the intention of get- 
ting valuable help from you in my difficult 
calling." 

"Ah ! that means that I am to give some 
information. Not about any of our people 
at the factory? Has anything happened 
there?" 

"It is not information, but actual assist- 
ance that I want of you. I want to make 
you my secret agent and initiate you at 
once, this very night." 

"How kind!" said William, laughing. 
"A secret agent of the police ! Eeally, that 
is something they never sang in my lullaby!" 

"Do you remember so distinctly?" asked 
Groebler, drily. 

"Would you like to have me think it 
over? It wouldn't be of much use, for, 
granting that I should have to admit that it 
is possible, it would still be impossible for 
me actually to enter upon the honorable ca- 
reer you propose." 

" We should not be hasty, my dear Herr 
Kronhorst," answered Groebler; "it is pos- 
sible that before you think you may be fair- 
ly launched into the career, and may trouble 
yourself as little about whether it is honora- 
ble, as about what lullaby may have been 
sung over your cradle." 

"You are getting mysterious, Herr Groe- 
bler. Come, out with it; what is it ?" 

" First I must beg pardon for prying into 
your secrets " 

"My secrets? I have none." 

"That is true; at least, no very great 
ones, unless the feelings of a young man's 
heart, of which almost all of us have quite 
a lively idea from our own experience, may 
be regarded as a great secret." 

" Ah, what do you mean?" cried William, 
in surprise. 

" That I am aware of your preference for 
a certain young lady." 

"You, Herr Groebler V 



" Do not be disturbed; there is no objec- 
tion on the part of the police to that prefer- 
ence, and, if I were to express my private 
opinion, I should say it does you honor. 
Neither need it disturb you that I know of 
it. My wife, who is a friend of Frau Ma- 
tilda Schott, has told me something of it — 
quite as a private, unprofessional matter. 
That is all, and we are not communicative. 
But to come to the matter in hand — you 
know where Fraulein Irene is?" 

William looked at him with wide-open 
eyes, and did not answer. 

"You know," proceeded Herr Groebler, 
calmly, ' ' she is in B. , or, rather, she 
was " 

"Was?" interrupted William. 

" So I said. For at this present time, she 
is no longer there, unfortunately. Her 
mother has received a telegram to that ef- 
fect. If you wish to see it, here it is." 

He drew the paper from his pocket and 
placed it on the table in front of William, 
who devoured it with his eyes, while his 
hand trembled and his face grew pale. 
Springing up, he ejaculated: 

" Oh, my God ! That is dreadful; he 
has carried her off!" 

< < He ? Who ?" said Herr Groebler, quickly. 

William turned his white, distressed face 
to the detective, without answering. 

"Say, who? Who has carried her off?" 

"Why, the man — the man mentioned 
here in the despatch," whispered William, 
turning from Groebler and sinking into his 
seat as if crushed. 

"My dear Herr Kronhorst," said Groe- 
bler, after a pause, "you cannot escape me 
so. Your 1 he' was some definite individual, 
some individual known to you, and in your 
mind at the time; and I must know who 
this 'he' of your thoughts is. You need 
conceal nothing from me, nothing at all. 
The princess has taken me into her confi- 
dence, and given me all the explanations 
necessary to enable me to act in the matter. 
Moreover, I know about all of the past his- 
tory of the princess— not all, but the most 
of it. You will, therefore, commit no indis- 
cretion by talking with me about persons 
who may, perhaps, have been connected 
with the princess in times past, or about 



131 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



matters you think it necessary to conceal 
from the rest of the world " 

"How should I know anything about 
such matters?" asked William, avoiding 
Groebler's eyes. 

" I should think through Fraulein Irene, 
whom you love, and who loves you in re- 
turn. " 

William did not answer at once; then he 
said, hesitatingly: 

"And the princess has talked with you 
about the matter — has taken you into her con- 
fidence, not Irene's mother, Frau Schott?" 

"No, not she; perhaps," he added, in a 
slightly ironical tone, " the princess may be 
thought to have more practical talent for 
business transactions; perhaps that was why 
she came. Perhaps, too " 

" Wis at were you going to say ?" 

"Perhaps," whispered Groebler, in an- 
swer, "perhaps the princess stands in closer 
relation to the girl than we' think." 

"Ah!" exclaimed William, in astonish- 
ment, " do you know that?" 

"I know nothing, nothing at all; all I 
want is to hear from you who this ' he' is. 
When you have told me that, we will talk 
farther of the matter — not before." 

"Well, then," said William, forced to an 
answer, " this 'he' is one Herr Philip Bon- 
sart, and is Irene's father." 

"Ah!" cried Herr Groebler, half aloud, 
his eyes flashing at the declaration, and a 
start betraying his surprise at this definite 
assertion. " Really, then — you know that ?" 

"Yes. You must know that Irene has 
received several letters lately, signed at 
first, P. B., and afterward with the full 
name, Philip Bonsart. They came from 
England. The first was short, and saial 
that a person nearly related to Irene had 
some information to give her, and would 
give it if Irene would answer the lines and 
promise to show them to none of her fam- 
ily. Irene answered, and gave the required 
promise. " 

" Which did not hinder her from showing 
the letters to you ?" 

"Yes, she showed them to me. I was 
not included among her family, and she 
was helpless without my advice in such a 
remarkable affair." 



"Of course. And the letters that fol- 
lowed contained — what?" 

"Herr Philip Bonsart, the writer, filled 
the next letter with a short sketch of his 
life — the life of a man who had made his 
own way in the world, and in doing so had 
passed through many hard struggles, and 
nor/, when the struggles were over, when he 
was enabled to enjoy the fruits of his efforts, 
had a new sorrow to contend with — the pain- 
ful sense of being entirely alone in the world. 
He was originally from the neighborhood of 
H., was a son of a former proprietor of As- 
thof, had been a student, and in the year 
1848 was among the " 

"Democrats, compromised himself in the 
Baden revolution, and then, when the re- 
action came, had to flee to America from 
the warrants that were out for his arrest " 

"Indeed, do you know all that, Herr 
Groebler?" cried William, in surprise. 

" Certainly I know it," said Herr Groe- 
bler, smiling and nodding, " I had it from 
both official and private sources — very spe- 
cial sources — so let us come to the point, 
and dispense with Herr Philip Bonsart's bi- 
ography." 

"Very well, then; the following letters, 
which Irene awaited in suspense, as the 
warmth of feeling displayed in the others 
had filled her with lively sympathy for the 
man, told her that his longing to see her 
was so great that he had determined to make 
the attempt to get her back — for she, Irene, 
was his daughter ! " 

William had whispered the last word with 
still greater caution than the others, and he 
looked at Groebler as he said it to observe 
the impression the revelation made upon 
him. But Groebler's features did not show 
the least surprise. He only nodded with 
the same smile as befere, and said: 

" His daughter. Then so much is es- 
tablished. And what else ? What more did 
this lonely, melancholy man write?" 

" She had no right to the name of Schott. 
She was nothing at all to the people for 
whose child she passed. She was his daugh- 
ter, and, therefore, he had a sacred claim up- 
on her, and could establish his claim in 
open court, for he had never given up his 
right. But he would not claim her against 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



135 



her will; and as for carrying the case into 
court, he was prevented from doing that by 
circumstances of a peculiar character. He 
could not compromise the princess; he had 
to consider her, and he would injure her ir- 
remediably if he were to appear against her 
to assert his right to his child. Hence, he 
knew of no other way than to make a direct 
appeal to his child. Irene was to answer as to 
whether she would grant him an interview, 
so that they might see each other, and he 
could then explain many things that could 
not be written. He would leave it entirely 
to her whether she would go with him or not; 
she should be perfectly free to decide accord- 
ing to her own feelings and judgment; only 
he must have an opportunity to speak, undis- 
turbed, with her, and explain everything." 

"The poor child!" said Herr Groebler. 
" How cruel to tell her all that, and re- 
quire such a decision from the child !" 

"In truth," continued William, eagerly, 
"the later letters shocked and terrified 
Irene exceedingly. She was almost beside 
herself, and did not know what to do. She 
received the last one the evening my father 
gave his last party. Frau Schott and Irene 
were not at the party — they do not visit at 
our house. But Irene was so agitated by the 
letter, and so much in need of some one to 
confide in, and receive advice from, that she 
wrapped up in her veil and cloak and came 
to our house. I received a note by a ser- 
vant, asking me to come to the lower bal- 
cony. I slipped out unnoticed, and found 
Irene waiting for me, in great excitement. 
We went to the farther end of the balcony, 
and Irene told me, with sobs, all that was in 
the letter. I could not read it for the dark- 
ness. You can imagine how perplexed we 
were; we thought it over and over; my ad- 
vice was that Irene should first require fur- 
ther explanations and proofs of the remark- 
able assertions of the man, which she had 
already asked in her former letter; and that, 
until they were given, she should carefully 
avoid a meeting with him, because it was 
possible that it might be some one trying to 
deceive and defraud her. Irene promised 
to follow my advice, though I saw that the 
writer of the letter was making more and 
more of an impression on her feelings, that 



she had a great deal of sympathy for him, 
and that her heart pleaded for him. I suc- 
ceeded in quieting her excitement, and she 
was quite like herself again when I took her 
home. 

" When I came back again, quite confused 
and anxious about this strange affair, which 
might have so much influence on my destiny 
through my relation to Irene, I found the 
company in great excitement over the sud- 
den illness of the prince. I was dreadfully 
frightened when I heard that they had found 
him lying on the balcony in the projection 
at the corner; for Irene and I had stood just 
under that projection when she told me 
about the letter. I had heard steps above 
us, but had not thought much about them, 
because I thought I heard them pass away 
again. You can imagine how shocked I 
was, and how anxiously I have wondered 
whether the prince could have overheard 
us, whether it was possible that any part 
of our conversation which may have reached 
his ears could have had any connection with 
his stroke " 

Herr Groebler shrugged his shoulders. 

" It. is not impossible, to be sure," he 
said; "it is not impossible that a conversa- 
tion like yours with Irenemay have thrown 
a sudden light for him upon his wife's past 
history — a very peculiar light. But it seems 
to me that the man's nature is not senti- 
mental enough to be crushed by any such 
revelation, which, too, could only have come 
to him in a very confused form. We may, 
therefore, set aside the subject of his at- 
tack, and trouble ourselves no farther about 
it. Let us confine ourselves to the facts; 
to the fact that it must have been Philip 
Bonsart who carried off the young girl he 
calls his daughter, and, therefore, that there 
is no need of either you or me starting out 
to-nigtit to pursue him. That was what the 
princess desired me to do, and what I was 
going to propose to you, because I thought 
you would be the best and most active agent 
in the business of finding Fraulein Irene 
Schott, and protecting her or saving her 
from a crime. But since we know who the 
abductor is, we need not fear that any harm 
will happen to her, and may go to rest for 
tie night in peace." 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



William Kronhorst did not look as if lie 
expected much peaceful rest that night. He 
made no answer, but clasped his hands to- 
gether, looked at the floor, and seemed 
more and more absorbed in thought. 

"Well," said Groebler, at length, "what 
are you thinking of ?" 

"I am not thinking much, ".said William, 
starting up. •" But I feel that I can no 
longer bear the dreadful suspense I have 
been kept in ever since Irene made those 
disclosures to me. When she went away, 
she promised me sacredly that she would 
not keep me in this painful suspense a mo- 
ment longer than was necessary; she would 
give me an immediate and minute account 
of everything that should happen, and would 
not decide on any step without my advice. 
But she has not written a line " 

"Indeed! Perhaps the little nuns at B. 
have taken care that the young ladies shall 
not keep up correspondence with young 
gentlemen in painful suspense " 

"I have borne it till now," continued 
William, "but I can bear it no longer. I 
must and will know what has happened, 
where Irene has gone, what fate awaits her 
with this Philip Bonsart, and what my own 
fate is to be. You will not need to make 
me an agent; I will go as my own agent — 
this very night !" 

Herr Groebler nodded. " It would be 
hard to keep you back, and I have no inter- 
est in keeping you. So go; take the tele- 
gram with you; it will serve as a credential 
with the nuns, to show that you are sent by 
the mother, by Frau Schott. You will have 
to make inquiries first of them." 

William, who had risen, took the paper 
and put it into his pocket. 

"You must be prepared," added Groe- 
bler,. "to find this Philip Bonsart a hard 
customer, if you should meet him. And — 
do not hurry so, do not run away without 
finding out where the man you are going to 
seek keeps himself, where he lives." 

"Why, do you know that? You know 
that, too?" . 

• ' Open your memorandum-book and write : 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Dean street, Queen's 
Place, No. 13." 

William stared at him in astonishment. 



"Ah," he said, "then you know all; you 
already knew this Philip Bonsart, you knew 
his relation to the princess, to Irene — for 
Heaven's sake, why do you not speak and 
tell me everything, as I have told you — all 
these things that are such a riddle to me — 
the real connection " 

" Why not ?" interrupted Groebler; "sim- 
ply because I only say what I know, and 
keep my conjectures, and suppositions, and 
combinations to myself. I pursue my call- 
ing a little as an art, my dear Herr Kron- 
horst, and an artist, you know, does not 
show his first attempts, his sketches and 
vague fantasies; he waits until he has fairly 
laid hold of his idea, and brought it out up- 
on canvas. So, if you are determined to 
carry out your plan, go, and may God help 
you. I have nothing more to tell you that 
would help you in your work; if I had, I 
would not keep it from you; bat what else 
I may know or think — that is a professional 
secret." 

Herr Groebler offered his hand; William 
hastily laid his own in it, looking at the 
other with an uncertain glance. Then the 
detective passed out, wrapped himself again 
in his cloak, and went home to Frau The- 
resa's waiting evening meal. 



CHAPTEK XXIL 

CONFESSION. 

HeiT Groebler rose the next morning in a 
very uneasy state of mind. Cool and un- 
disturbed as he usually was, and accus- 
tomed to the shifting chances of human 
destiny, still he was strongly affected by 
what he had heard the evening before from 
the princess and from William Kronhorst. 
His thoughts had been so occupied with it 
that he had gone to sleep very late; then he 
was tormented by confused dreams — dreams 
that he could not distinctly remember, but 
which, judging from the impression they 
left on his spirits, must have been of a most 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



137 



disquieting nature; perhaps that all hi 
wards and foster-children had escaped from 
their cells and were making his district so 
unsafe that he had to run himself nearly to 
death in pursuit of them; or that his salary 
was reduced by just the amount he had 
promised Frau Theresa for her summer 
wardrobe. He was standing now in front 
of the stove in the room where he had re- 
ceived the princess, warming his back and 
blowing smoke-clouds from his long pipe, 
while he thought over all he had heard the 
day before, and which, much as he had 
thought it over and weighed its probabilities 
before, had yet come to him as strange and 
almost impossible. 

So Ferclinaud von Schott had been right. 
It was all as he had suspected, divined, be- 
lieved — all; Philip had been married to 
Elsie von Melroth that time at Asthof, and 
Irene was their child. They were Catholics 
and could not be divorced, and so Elsie von 
Melroth had taken the law into her own 
hands and divorced herself — boldly and pre- 
sumptuously, as if the princely mantle 
would hide any sin ! Or was still another 
explanation possible ? God only knew ! 

And now, what would come of the mat- 
ter ? Could it be hushed up, even now ? 
Perhaps. This Herr Bonsart had acted dis- 
creetly, and seemed to be a man who would 
not proceed without consideration; and if 
William Kronhorst were allowed to marry 
Irene, he would be quiet, too. But would 
his father consent, and would Philip Bon- 
sart be willing to give away his daughter, 
just as he had gained her ? As regarded 
Herr von Schott, he, too, would be silent if 
the property of his cousin were delivered 
up to him. "Nothing would remain," said 
Herr Groebler to himself, " but to explain 
the affair to Irene's guardian and to the 
Probate Court; that would be a difficult 
matter. Perhaps the prince will be gener- 
ous and make up Herr von Schott's loss to 
him up to the time when Irene is of age 
and can give up the property indepen- 
dently, without appealing to her guardian 
and the Court. The prince ! The poor 
devil 1 If the affair should come to his 
ears, he would strangle his proud wife ! He 
is the very man for it I 



" And then, at last," he continued, after a 
pause, "there would be no one left but 
Herr Groebler to bo induced to hold his 
peace- Well. Herr Groebler is good-heart- 
ed. He would do a great deal at a friendly 
request. It's a pity that he is no better 
casuist. For, the devil take me, if I know 
whether I can help to hush up the affair. 
After all, the police is not an order of father 
confessors. People cannot confide their 
sins to their subsigillo confessionis, and so 
place a padlock on their lips. And they 
have their official honor, and their oath of 
office; they have their conscience and their 
ambition. And if, after all, the whole per- 
formance should come to Light and it should 
be said: Groebler knew of it; they slipped 
a pretty piece of money into his hand to 
keep him quiet — then Groebler would be 
the victim of his good heart and would be 
ruined in expiation of the crime of making 
such a mistake as for a royal police-inspector 
and member of the fourth class of the order 
of the Red Eagle to obey the voice of feel- 
ing in preference to that of duty." 

Herr Groebler passed his palm several 
times over the part of his head where the 
organ of secretiveness is thought to lie, as 
if involuntarily attempting to appease it by 
flattering caresses for his disregard of its 
monitions; then he began to send out still 
greater clouds of tobacco-smoke. 

** Now, then," he began again, after some 
time, "we shall have to wait upon the 
princess, to report to her what Herr William 
Kronhorst has confided to us, and what this 
same Kronhorst, junior, has decided to do. 
It will quiet her completely as far as re- 
gards the horrible robber-story she has been 
spinning about the landrath; but, on the 
other hand, it may not be so pleasant for 
her to hear that this Herr Philip has so un- 
expectedly turned up again. I am afraid 
the name of Philip Bonsart will startle her 
a little. With his claims upon the young 
girl, whom she surely will not easily give 
up, unless she is compelled to — well, we 
shall hear what she says to it." 

At this moment Herr Groebler's reflec- 
tions were suddenly interrupted. There 
was a quick knock at the door and who 
should follow it but the very man Herr 



138 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



Groebler had just been thinking of— Herr 
von Schott. 

"Here I am," said he, extending his 
hand, " worn-out with the long journey, and 
as wise as I was before." 

"You!" exclaimed the police-inspector, 
"You here ! So much the better ! When 
did you come?" 

"Late last evening," answered Ferdi- 
nand, throwing himself into the sofa-corner 
the princess had taken the day before, " di- 
rect from Ostend." 

"Then we should have the best proof of 
an alibi for you." 

"An alibi? "What does that mean? 
What is the need of an alibi f Am I ac- 
cused of committing a murder or any other 
horror here?" 

" Not here, but in B ." 

"I? In B ? What has happened 

there ?" 

" Fraulein Irene lias been carried off by 
a middle-aged man, supposed to be you." 

< < Carried off ? Irene ? And I " 

" You are said to be the rascal." 

" Groebler — I beg of you — and who says 
set" 

"Go to her Highness the Princess of 
Achsenstein, and I have no doubt she will 
tell you so to your face." 

"Now, by Heaven," cried Ferdinand, 
springing up, " I will; I would like to hear 
that from the princess herself ! She — she 
accuses me of carrying off Irene?" 

"She does. She accuses you of having 
been long prying into her affairs to destroy 
her, and now of having abducted the child. 
But, as I have said, you can prove an alibi. 
Yesterday you were on the railroad from 
Ostend here. And day before yesterday in 
England — were you? In Newcastle-upon- 
Tyne ? What is going on there ? What is 
this wonderful fellow, Bonsart, doing?" 

"First tell me all about this abduction. 
What has happened to Irene?" 

Herr Groebler told the whole story. While 
he was speaking Ferdinand seated himself 
again to listen. When it came to Philip 
Bonsart's letters to Irene, leaving no more 
doubt who the abductor of the girl was, 
Ferdinand interrupted him, exclaiming: 

"Ah! Everything is clear now. It was 



for that Philip Bonsart had left his home c 
I found his rooms in Newcastle empty. He 
had gone away to Belgium and France, 
they told me, for three, four, five weeks, 
they did not know how long. I was in a 
state of desperation, but what could I do ? 
I had to decide to come home again, after 
staying there several days in doubt. And 
now we see why he was not in Newcastle !" 

Herr Groebler nodded. "Of course," 
he said, "and everything agrees remark- 
ably. It is a good thing I was not foolish 
enough to start off myself, at the beck of 
the princess." 

" And young Kronhorst went, instead of 
you?" 

" He would not be kept back, although I 
did not see that he could accomplish much. 
But who knows; perhaps he will succeed in 
overtaking them and coming to an under- 
standing with Herr Philip. As the girl 
loves him, it is not improbable. You can 
console yourself now for having learned 
nothing at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. All you 
wanted to know is now open and clear, and 
for fear I may forget it, I will bow in hum- 
ble admiration of your sagacity. You were 
right in everything. What your intuition 
saw and penetrated, is all proved true. The 
letters of Bonsart to the girl are evidence 
enough. " 

Ferdinand did not answer. Sunken in 
his sofa-corner, he seemed busy with his own 
thought. 

"And I think," continued Groebler, after 
a pause, " we shall have a tangled story out 
of the affair. Herr Philip wants his daugh- 
ter; Herr von Schott wants his property. 
' My ducats and my daughter, ' cries Shylock 
in the play; and what will the prince cry, as 
the third in the list for tormentors of the 
princess ? I am afraid he will very soon call 
for something she will find it hard to give — 
explanation!" 

"The unfortunate woman!" exclaimed 
Ferdinand, starting up. " The unfortunate 
woman ! What can be done to help her ? 
Poor woman !" 

" Do you say that now, just as you hear 
that all your suspicions were well-founded ? 
How to help her ! I should think that would 
be your last thought, after you have been 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



139 



robbed by her and then deemed capable of 
murder I" 

"And yet she must be now far more un- 
happy than I am, and — give me my hat, 
Groebler " 

" Where are you going?" 

"Where should I go but to her? I will 
tell her what has happened, who it is that 
has carried off her daughter, and will see 
how I can help her." 

"You will do that ? Well, I have no ob- 
jection, and you will save me the trouble — 
and a little embarrassment I*should have 
felt at meeting her — for, to tell the truth, I 
never had less desire to make the most of a 
discovery, than with the one I should have 
jbad to report to her to-day." 

"You shall be relieved of all that," an- 
swered Ferdinand. "Leave everything to 
me, everything." He hastily extended his 
hand to Groebler and hurried down the steps 
and out of the house. The sharp wind that 
blew through the lindens along the avenue 
to Achsenstein, cooled his heated face and 
enabled him to breathe more freely. The 
wild chaos of his thoughts and emotions 
seemed to subside under the frosty current 
of air. He had the feeling of being justi- 
fied from the sin against Elsie in prying in- 
to her past life; not justified by the fact he 
had just learned from Groebler that he was 
right in every one of his suspicions; no, not 
by that; but justified because he believed 
he understood the secret of her life clearly 
because of . this very prying, and it was for- 
tunate for Elsie that he did see it clearly. 
He could now go to her and say: It will no 
longer avail you anything to conceal the 
facts from me; I know everything, and you 
must now take me as your only friend, the 
only one who can interpose for you and help 
you. 

He was absorbed by the one feeling of 
unbounded satisfaction as at a great con- 
quest, in the belief that he could reassure 
and protect her, that she would be obliged 
to accept his help, that he could convince 
her of all that he could be to her. 

There was, perhaps, some selfishness in 
this feeling. There was, perhaps, mixed 
with it, a considerable proportion of pride 
in being able, now to heap coals of fire upon 



her head; perhaps, too, a considerable pro- 
portion of the love of power that makes a 
man desire to conquer where he loves. But 
Ferdinand did not examine his motives; he 
only stormed onward; and if he had tried 
to put into words the real object of his 
present visit to Achsenstein, he could have 
answered only: " To reassure and comfort 
and help her in her suffering ! " 

At his arrival he was told that she had 
not been seen the whole morning, and he 
would hardly be received. Bat he insisted 
on having hi£ urgent wish to see her an- 
nounced to her by her maid. The servant 
returned and beckoned to Ferdinand to fol- 
low him up to the princess' parlor. Ferdi- 
nand awaited her there with a beating heart. 
He stood at the window from which Elsie 
had so often looked down in sadness on the 
city roofs and the minster. The whole view 
seemed to Ferdinand to-day like a picture 
in a dream, as something uncertain and dis- 
solving that he saw and did not see, that his 
eyes refused to receive the impression of 
as something real and defined. Elsie came 
at last. She was still in her morning dress; 
her hair was loosely tucked under a cap; 
she had not even taken the time to tie the 
strings; they were fluttering over her shoul- 
ders as she stepped in hastily. 

"What is it you wish, what have you 
come for?" she asked, in a voice trembling 
with anger, as the door closed behind the 
maid, and she stood opposite Ferdinand in 
the middle of the room. 

" To tell you first, princess, that I did not 
carry off Irene; and then to tell you who 
did." 

"Ah ! and who was it V* 
"Philip Bonsart." 

Elsie grew deadly white. With a trem- 
bling hand she reached for the back of the 
nearest chair. 

"Ah!" she said, controlling herself with 
surprising power, while her breast heaved 
and her eyes flashed upon Ferdinand, "he — 
and you know it; it was probably you who 
informed him, who induced him to come; 
you incited him to act, you were his as- 
sistant, his accomplice. It was for that you 
were prying around at Vellinghaus — to ac- 
complish, at length, this grand deed — to de- 



uo 



PIKE AND FLAME. 



stroy me through Philip Bonsart, and then 
get possession of your money, your miser- 
able money " 

"No," answered Ferdinand, whom her 
violent words had helped in regaining his 
own self-control; "but I am not offended 
at you words. On the contrary, they are 
agreeable to me. The worse you think 
of me, the more cruelly you treat me, the 
lighter grows the weight of my shameful 
offence toward you — the offence of search- 
ing in Vellinghaus for the knowledge 
of your past. Not for my money, not to 
gain possession of my miserable money, as 
you think — no, most certainly not — but in 
obedience to the demon within me, that has 
given me no rest since I saw you again, but 
has tormented me, day and night — that has 
made my life one continual torture ! In a 
word, that which I have done, and which 
you are so angrily reproaching me with, I 
did it because I could not help it; because I 
could not live without trying to get a clear 
understanding of these things. I wanted 
to know whether the generosity that led you 
to urge upon me first money, and then 
Irene's hand — whether all that sympathy 
came only from a consciousness of guilt, 
from a conscience trying to relieve itself of 
a part of its burden. That is what I wanted 
to know, and, truly, nothing farther. And, 
in order that you may see that the money 
has nothing to do with it, I tell you now: 
I know everything; I can destroy you at 
any moment, princess, by coming forward 
and demanding that 'miserable money.' 
But with this power over you, I have only 
come here to compel you to hear my solemn 
declaration that I would rather cut off my 
hand than raise it against you; and that I 
will do my utmost to strike down any other 
hand that may be raised against you." 

Princess Elsie sank into the chair beside 
which she had been standing. She looked 
at him with glance whose calmness indicated 
a peculiarly sudden disarming; the clear, 
open eyes resting full upon her face, and 
the earnest, decided, manly tone of the 
words, seemed to work upon her with pe- 
culiar force. They seemed to subjugate 
her, to break her pride. There must have 
been a force in the words that made her feel 



that she had found her master — a feeling 
Elsie von Melroth had never before experi- 
enced; she silently bowed her head, resting 
her forehead on the high arm of the easy- 
chair, and began to weep bitterly. 

Ferdinand was silent for a long time. At 
length he said: 

" Control yourself, princess. "We nave 
to talk, to consider. First, I ask you to give 
me your hand as a friend whom you trust; 
Do you trust me, princess?" 

She extended her hand, and, without look- 
ing at him, dk lifting her forehead, she said : 

"Yes, I trust you. Go on." 

" Well, I will tell you what has happened. 
I wanted to ascertain your relation to Philip 
Bonsart. For that purpose I hunted up 
Emil Drausfeld, because I knew that you 
and Philip had exchanged letters with him. 
I found Emil Drausfeld no longer among 
the living. T, therefore, hunted up Philip 
Bonsart himself. I went to England where 
he now lives; but I did not find him; he 
had gone away for some time. Last evening 
I returned. And here I learned, through 
the man whom you took into your con- 
fidence, that Irene had been abducted, and 
that it could only have been done by Philip 
Bonsart, who had been writing letters to 
her which she had kept secret, and in which 
he had claimed the rights of a father. She 
had shown these letters to only one person, 
and that one was William Kronhorst, whom 
she loves. Groebler looked him up yester- 
day after his conversation with you, and 
learned all this from him. William, however, 
has gone to B. to learn what he can about 
Irene's fate, though it seems to me that 
there is no need for any great uneasiness in 
regard to it. You see that for the present 
you have no occasion for anxiety. ' Your se- 
cret is safe with me, with Groebler and 
William Kronhorst; it remains only to keep 
Philip Bonsart away and silent, and not to 
irritate him by useless resistance to the right 
he claims. It becomes necessary, therefore, 
— it may be extremely hard for you, but it 
is absolutely necessary — that for the present 
you should submit to the loss of Irene. 
There is good reason to hope that she will 
be William Kronhorst's wife, and then you 
will have your daughter here again." 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



141 



" My daughter !" exclaimed Elsie, starting 
up. "My daughter? Why do you say 
'Your daughter?'" 

"Why — your daughter — Irene I" answered 
Ferdinand. 

" You think Irene is my daughter?" 
"Why, certainly; how else could it be? 
What other explanation can there be?" 

So you believed that ? That is what you 
were trying to prove — and you, you be- 
lieved it! Well, how could you help it? 
The suggestion was so natural — there was 
no other explanation I" 

She covered her face with her hands, and 
the tears trickled through her fingers. 

" And is she not — is Irene not your daugh- 
ter?" asked Ferdinand. "But, heavens! 
Do I not know that- you were secretly mar- 
ried to Philip Bonsart at Asthof — does he 
not call Irene his child — and did you not 
yourself confess that my cousin's property 
rightfully belonged to me, as it would not 
if Irene were your sister's daughter?" 

With a deep sigh Elsie uncovered her 
face, and, turning to him, said, calmly: 

"Yes, yes, you could not do otherwise 
than think so. I am not angry about it, my 
friend. And it is perhaps a just punish- 
ment for me that you think so. I have long 
had an impulse to give you my full confi- 
dence. Why did I not do so ? ' But why 
were you. not there at the times when I 
longed to talk openly with you and to find 
in you the heart of a friend ? 

"Why, when you were there, did you ex- 
cite my anger by professions of love? 
Otherwise I should have confessed every- 
thing to you long, long ago, and should have 
asked you for help — you, against whom I 
have sinned the most. But could I ask you 
for help when you were talking to me of 
love? And the consequence is that you 
have formed — God only knows what un- 
worthy conceptions of my past life I" 

She stopped, clasping her hands and 
dropping them wearily in her lap, and look- 
ed in silence at the floor. 

Ferdinand looked at her with a peculiar 
expression of pain and suspense, not ventur- 
ing to answer a syllable. There was some- 
thing crushing in this discovery that he had | 



been so completely deceived and had so 
sinned against her in his thoughts. 

" Do you wish me," she continued after 
a pause, "to tell you the whole story, all 
that has made me so unhappy ? If you do, 
listen, and I will tell you: 

"When I was a young girl at Asthof, a . 
wild girl, without a mother's care, Philip 
Bonsart was my constant playmate. We 
ran about the yard and the gardens, played 
all sorts of wild tricks, and were constant 
allies in teasing and tormenting the harm- 
less people in the world around us. This 
bound us together, though we were, in re- 
ality, very different in our natures, and were 
constantly at strife. But at that age, who 
inquires whether a companion is really con- 
genial, when he needs him every day for 
the fun and pleasure that is everything at 
that age? I, at least, did not; and when 
Philip was at length sent to school, I gave 
him my word that I would be his wife when 
he should have finished at school,- and have 
become a man in business and dignity. As 
it occurred to him to ask this promise be- 
fore he went, I should have been obliged 
to give it, for if I had not, he would prob- 
ably have given me a beating. But I was a 
little affected by the parting — too much af- 
fected to refuse it. He wrote letters to me, 
now and then, some of which I answered 
and some left unanswered; when there was 
any fun to report, I wrote; when the days 
passed along quietly and monotonously, I 
did not, for there was nothing to write; 
nothing came from my heart that I was im- 
pelled to write to him. Gradually he be- 
gan to feel this. As he grew older, he com- 
plained of my hardness and coldness toward 
him. Even when he was at home during 
vacations, I had to hear these complaints, 
and the answer I gave was generally worse 
treatment than before, until it came to pas- 
sionate scenes which ended in our making 
peace — I had to make peace to put an end to 
his passion, which bored me. He tormented 
me, too, with petty jealousies, and in return 
I reproached him with his wild life at the 
university, of which all kinds of stories were 
told, and then we sulked — or I treated him 
as badly as I could, till at length we were 
reconciled, only to begin again shortly, with 



142 FIRE 

the same performance. Whether he loved 
me, I do not know. I do not think he knew 
himself; it was, perhaps, only a demoniac 
desire to gain the ascendency over me, to 
conquer me, and so to revenge himself for 
all the pain I had given his heart, or, per- 
haps, his wounded vanity. This state of 
affairs continued till the year forty-nine, till 
the part Philip played in the events of the 
spring and in the summer months, on the 
Rhine — the name he made for himself as 
the people's hero, suddenly gave me a whol- 
ly different feeling toward him. I began to 
respect him, as I had never done before, to 
admire him; I fell into a state of fanciful 
fanaticism, I could have borne everything 
with him, could have struggled and fallen 
for the great cause of the fatherland, for 
German unity and freedom. I was often 
almost on the point of running away secret- 
ly to follow him into the conflict for our 
ideals. Who can tell what would have hap- 
pened if his role had not so soon come to 
an end at H., the city so near us, and to 
which my father afterward moved? He 
fled from H., and we exchanged the most 
high-flown letters, which passed through 
the hands of one of his friends in Switzer- 
land, until Philip, having escaped from the 
wreck of the revolution, arrived in Switzer- 
land himself, and at length concluded to 
turn his back forever to Germany, which ho 
did not now dare to enter, and to try his 
fortune in America. My enthusiastic ad- 
miration for him continued; it was height- 
ened by sympathy for his misfortunes; and 
so our relation remained the same, and I 
continued to regard myself as his future 
wife, and was ready to follow him when he 
should come to claim my hand. This lasted 
a year or two. The letters he wrote me were 
full of hope and courage; I enjoyed them, 
and waited patiently and contentedly ; and 
yet I was terribly shocked when I, one 
day, received a letter saying that he was 
about to sail shortly to take me back with 
him. It suddenly seemed to me to be a 
dreadful criminal venture — to go in secret, a 
fugitive, into a new world, against my fa- 
ther's will, and forever separated from those 
I loved. That new world seemed to me 
suddenly so dangerous, so uncertain, so 



AND FLAME. 

changeful, the whole future so threatening, 
and Philip's character so wanting in every- 
thing that would secure happiness to us 
both. And yet, could I now say no* — now, 
when he had been counting upon me for 
years, when all his efforts to build up his for- 
tune in his new home were animated by the 
thought of me ? I could not, I had not the 
courage; but I told him, and remained firm 
in the resolution, that I would go only as 
his wife. This made it much more difficult 
for him, when at length he came; it kept 
him much longer here where his safety was 
constantly threatened; he had to engage a 
priest and some witnesses, and to make 
some preparations that kept him at Asthof 
several days. He came to H., and I saw 
him again; he tried to quiet my anxiety, 
and I promised everything, agreed to every- 
thing; under the influence of his imperious 
personality, I ventured no opposition. On 
the da^ appointed, I went to Asthof, under 
pretence of visiting a friend not far from 
there; he had provided for my entertain- 
ment in an inn, kept by an old servant of 
his family. But my heart bled when I left 
my home; I was more dead than alive; and 
a single warning cry, a dissuading word, 
would have kept me under my father's roof. 
But the warning was not spoken. My sister 
and my father were perfectly willing I 
should make the visit to my friend; my fa- 
ther helped pack my trunk, and my sister 
accompanied me to the otage; and I went 
alone, out into my uncertain future." 

"And do you think," said Ferdinand, 
half aloud, as Elsie paused, "do you think 
I suffered less during those hours than you 
did ? I was in despair, that day, for I knew 
everything. I had learned everything 
through your confidant, Eoiil Drausfeld." 

"Ah ! You knew everything, you !" cried 
Elsie, in extreme surprise. 

"Yes, I knew everything — except that a 
word of dissuasion, a warning, could have 
held you back; if I had known that, the one 
to warn you would not have been wanting; 
he would even have thrown himself under 
the wheels of your carriage to keep you 
back. I know, too, what happened after- 
ward. Philip Bonsart's return was discov- 
ered by the police; again, I was the only 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



143 



one that knew it; if I had obeyed the im- 
pulse of my jealous passion, I should have 
quietly left him to his fate; but I thought 
his misfortune would strike you, too; that 
his lot wSuld thenceforth be yours; and so 
I went to Einil Drausfeld and sent him to 
you and Philip with the warning news." 

"And do you know that that news, that 
warning, saved me?" cried Elsie, eagerly. 
"I may call it saved, for it is clear to me 
now that Philip Bonsart and I were not suit- 
ed to each other, that we should have made 
each other very unhappy. Two characters in 
which pride so predominates should not be 
joined together; for neither can yield enough 
to make the other happy. Yes, that warning 
saved me. It opened my eyes to the dan- 
gers of what I was about to do. I saw the 
danger of being with him, pursued by the 
police, treated as a criminal and put into 
prison, or being obliged to read my name 
with his in the warrants which would be 
sent after us; of dishonoring my father's 
name, and destroying my sister's happiness 
— her husband could no longer hold his po- 
sition as an officer — no, all that was beyond 
my strength, the strength of my pride, per- 
haps, but it was beyond it. I urged Philip 
to fly at once to the nearest port, not to 
make his flight more difficult by taking me, 
to leave me. At this, he flew into a violent 
passion, and from distress at this passion, 
at the sorrow he showed, I consented to go 
with him to the clergyman who was to 
marry us, and Emil Drausfield went with 
us. But this clergyman, who had made the 
promise to Philip very reluctantly, came to 
my relief most unexpectedly. He could 
not perform the ceremony at such short 
notice, because the chapel was not ready, 
because one witness was lacking, and there 
was no other at hand, as he declared, of 
whose secrecy he could feel assured — in 
short, he was as anxious to be released from 
his promise as I from mine; and at last, 
Philip,- in great wrath, declared to me that 
he would release me from all my promises 
to follow him afterward, that he would give 
me back my word, that I should be free 
forever — only that he should require in 
return another, and sacred promise; and 
this promise wis, that I should take his 
10 



child aud give it a mother's care. His 
child ! It was a little girl, two and a half 
years old, that was living in the cabin of a 
field-watch at Asthof, with the parents of 
her mother, who had died soon after her 
birth; the child was sickly, poorly cared 
for, and miserably neglected. This child, 
of whose existence I had never known be- 
fore, lay on his heart; I was obliged to give 
him the promise he required — my God, 
what would I not have promised at that 
moment — I promised everything and swore 
it, and then he rushed off to his father's, 
took a horse from the stables, and fled 
through the darkness and the fog. 

M The next day, I returned to my father's, 
quite broken in spirit by the exciting scenes 
I had passed through, and yet saved, by the 
revelation I had received of Philip's char- 
acter, from regretting that I had at last 
faithlessly broken my word to him. I tried 
to care for the child as well as I could; to 
take it into our house was, of course, im- 
possible; I had to find a family in the city 
who would take it and be quiet about it; 
when this was done, I told all to Matilda, 
and she helped me in the care of the poor 
child, until she married your cousin and 
went east with him. After that, my father 
died. And then I learned that my care of 
the child, notwithstanding all the precau- 
tions I had taken to keep it secret, had been 
discovered and rumored about, and the 
worst construction placed upon it. It was 
not enough that I was left alone, unprotect- 
ed, and orphaned, and doubly helpless 
through my poverty, for our affairs were 
thrown into confusion at my father's death, 
and I was a beggar — that was not enough, 
but the world must add to. it this horrible 
wrong. Nothing remained for me but to go 
to my sister's. Matilda and your cousin re- 
ceived me kindly, and, as they had no chil- 
dren, they were glad to receive Irene also. 
In the little half -Polish place to which your 
cousin was transferred immediately after, 
people troubled themselves very little about 
the child's origin. It passed for the daugh- 
ter of your cousin and Matilda; that was 
natural, and it was quite as natural that 
neither Matilda, nor your cousin, nor I 
should see any occasion for explaining to 



HI 



FERE AND FLAME 



them the real state of the case. Matilda 
and your cousin soon became so accustomed 
to the role of Irene's parents, that they 
hardly realized it was a role. I heard from 
Philip Bonsart, from time to time, through 
our confidant, Emil Drausfield. He wanted 
information about his daughter, to whom 
he seemed very much attached, and I gave 
it by writing to Emil, who then sent word 
to him. A direct correspondence would 
have been so painful to us, that we had de- 
cided on this way for Philip to hear from 
his child. 

' 1 And then came the time when Matilda 
was left alone, when your cousin Alexander 
died. We then ]eft that place and settled 
in a little watering-place, K., in Thuringia. 
We were in very straitened circumstances, 
for we had to live on the interest of the set- 
tlement your cousin, the banker, had given 
Matilda's husband at his marriage, and a 
very small pension Matilda received. To 
this was added a small amount, a few tha- 
lers a month, for their daughter Irene." 

" Ah, she should not have accepted that I" 
exclaimed Ferdinand. 

"No, she should not ; but what could she 
do ? She did not ask for it; a friend and com- 
rade of her husband had attended to her busi- 
ness affairs after his death, and had made 
all the statements and allegations necessary; 
her pension and this money for Irene were 
paid to her without anything farther; and 
as she had to provide for me as well as for 
Irene, and pay for her education, we did 
not discuss the propriety of taking the 
money very closely." 

"You acted like women, who are defi- 
cient in the sense of right men have in such 
matters, and believe that law can always be 
twisted to fit circumstances," interrupted 
Ferdinand. 

"The next year," continued Elsie, "I 
became acquainted with the prince at K., 
and was weak enough toward myself and 
toward others who beset me to accept the 
hand he offered me; I was so poor, so for- 
saken; I did it, God knows, with the noblest 
intentions. I believed I could exert the 
influence on him which I had been as- 
sured I could. In my vanity, I believed 
that from such a lofty height I could shed a | 



benign influence over a wide and grateful 
circle, like a guardian spirit. I saw a wholly 
ideal life before me. What would not a 
girl believe when a princely crown was 
offered her ? What, until she finds that she 
has sold herself to the coarse nature of a 
man that mocks at her ideal dreams, that, not- 
withstanding all the self-denial he requires 
of a wife, will not make the slightest sacrifise 
himself, and must always be what he was 
and is, leaving nothing for her but self-con- 
tempt for so idiotically throwing herself 
away I But something still more dismay- 
ing than this discovery was yet to come. 
Your cousin, the banker, died, without leav- 
ing any will. Matilda had not had the 
slightest doubt that, everything would be 
left to you; her husband had often assured 
her that it would be so, when suddenly the 
entire property fell to her as the mother of 
Irene, the nearest relative ! The court at 
H. appointed a guardian without delay; the 
guardian accepted the care of such a prop- 
erty with pleasure, and manifested great 
zeal in it. No affirmations or proofs were 
required of Matilda; the matter was regard- 
ed as unquestionable, and all Matilda has 
had to do is to sign certain papers and re- 
ceive the money sent her by Irene's guar- 
dian. 

" Matilda had moved here; it was natural 
that, being so lonely, she should desire to 
be near me, and I wanted to attend to Irene, 
as I had promised Philip Bonsart. You 
can imagine how we two women were fright- 
ened, and how helpless, how at sea we felt, 
when this dreadful inheritance came. What 
could we do, what, in Heaven's name ? The 
property did not belong to Irene; it be- 
longed to you ; you alone. There was no 
will, but there was no need of one; since my 
brother-in-law had died childless, you and 
your sister were the nearest relatives. But 
could we now come out and say: Irene is 
the daughter of a poor servant girl at As- 
thof ; I had put myself under obligation to 
take the care of her, and then my sister 
adopted her as her child ? It was impossi- 
ble; wholly impossible. My sister would 
have exposed herself to criminal prosecu- 
tion for claiming and receiving the money 
for the child's education. I should have 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



145 



been completely ruined; for how would the 
prince have borns it if I had told him the 
truth; if he had known me to have been 
engaged for years to a republican and dem- 
agogue, who had fled to America, if he had 
known how near I had been to becoming 
his wife, that I had stolen away from my 
father's house for that purpose, how would 
he have received that ? And that was not 
all; what I feared more than his anger, was 
his distrust — the incredulity with which he 
would meet my statements in regard to 
Irene. He thinks so badly of women ! I 
thought shudderingly of what I had experi- 
enced in H., of the calumny I had drawn 
upon myself by my care of Irene. The 
end would surely have been that the prince 
would have rejected and ruined me. That 
would have been the end of the long strug- 
gle between my pride and his coarseness, 
for that is what our married life has really 
been — the end would have been irremediable 
humiliation for me and I should have died 
in the disgrace. 

"And so, so, then, we were too weak to 
come to a decision, and we let the days pass 
and became criminals — were silent and took 
the inheritance that belonged to you. At 
first we were oppressed and could hardly 
breathe under the burden, but gradually 
we grew accustomed to it, and quieted our 
consciences with the thought that, in the 
first place, . you and Adele, so far as we 
knew, were not in want; that you had a 
good position, and that in four or five years 
Irene would be twenty-one; then she would 
come into full possession of the property, 
and then we could disclose everything to 
her, and quietly put you in possession of 
what belonged to you. 

"So matters stood when I met you in 
Florence and heard from your own Hps how 
I had sinned against you — that just the loss 
of that inheritance had entirely ruined your 
prospects. Not until then did I compre- 
hend the crime I had committed in its 
whole extent. 

" 'Where does the real -wrong begin ? 
Where man has harmed his fellow-man/ 

1 1 That is the principle by which a woman 
always judges of right; a wrong that harms 



no one seems very trifling to her, while she 
feels keenly one that injures or makes any 
one unhappy, or ruins his prospects, as did 
mine toward you. What could I do ? I 
tried to gain your friendship, in order to 
have the right, as a friend, to restore at 
least a part of what you had been defrauded 
of. But you did not understand me; you 
spoiled my plan by your foolish refusal; 
and afterward you spoiled the second plan 
I formed to make good your loss to you. 
Since then I have lived in wretchedness and 
self- contempt, every morning dreading the 
new day, and every evening seeking self- 
forgetfulness in rest the night would not 
bring — until yesterday, when an insane 
sense of desperate satisfaction took posses- 
sion of me, as I found myself on the verge 
of a catastrophe that must put an end to the 
unendurable state of affairs. You had dis- 
covered our crime, you had taken steps to 
obtain proofs which would expose me, you 
had been trying to get possession of my 
letters to Emil Drausfeld; I had deserved it 
all, but it excited me inexpressibly; there 
was so much artifice and hypocrisy in it; it 
gave me the right to despise you and the 
whole world as I despised myself; and with 
this angry contempt was mingled a feeling 
of satisfied revenge toward myself, as I 
cried out, in my senseless excitement, 4 It 
is he who has been trying to get the girl 
into his power, and your deception has 
driven him to it; and the end will be the 
ruin of us all.' I was on the verge of mad- 
ness yesterday. Oh! I suffered unspeak- 
ably!" 

" Poor woman !" said Ferdinand, softly, 
and in a tone of heartfelt sympathy. 

"Is that all you have to say after you 
have learned how you have been defrauded 
and how unjustly I accused you yesterday V* 

"That is all; for, truly, you were all the 
time more unhappy than I; and that not 
through your own fault, but through a fa- 
tality, through the combination of circum- 
stance with the peculiarities of your char- 
acter; and is not our character, too, a fatal- 
ity? The character has o&en an original, 
unavoidable tendency; if we would only 
recognize this truth, how much more peace- 
ably we should often get along with others. 



146 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



We two have sinned against each other — 
you against me, and I against yon, . by a 
hateful, unworthy suspicion. In this we 
are quits. Let us now throw all that be- 
hind us and help each other to meet the fu- 
ture. There is no ground for despair at the 
prospect. You have no enemy here, no one 
who would lift a hand against you. Irene, 
indeed, has been carried away by her fa- 
ther; but need the world, our world here, 
know anything of that? Groebler will be 
as silent as the grave. . William Kronhorst 
has no interest in acting against you; on the 
contrary, he, as well as Philip Bonsart, owes 
you gratitude for what you have done for 
Irene. What would her life have been 
without you?" 

" And you — you yourself ?" 

"I," said Ferdinand, with a bitter smile, 
" 1 am mean enough to use the advantage I 
have over you. I require you to throw all 
the care and responsibility upon my shoul- 
ders. I will talk with Groebler, and then 
with Philip Bonsart. He will not want to 
give up his daughter. But as for injuring 
you in any way, surely ~" 

" Can you, then, find him so easily?" 

"Yes, I know where to find him. He 
lives in England. I have just returned 
from- an unsuccessful journey to see him." 

" Ah ! — you hunted him up ?" 

" I did not find him. I wanted an expla- 
nation from him." 

Elsie looked at him with large eyes, but 
said nothing. 

" And will you now allow me," he con- 
tinued, "to go to him, and prevent him 
from doing anything that may embarrass 
you?" 

She rose and gave him her hand. 

" Do I need to tell you that I will ? Have 
I not given you the right to act for me by 
giving you my unreserved confidence ? Do 
now as you think best. Arrange the matter 
of the property as you will; I shall be sat- 
isfied; provided only that this burden is 
taken from me, that I know you have re- 
ceived what belongs to you. When that is 
done, I shall thank you from my inmost 
heart; and, till then, I will await what the 
future may bring, with confidence. " 

Ferdinand held her hand in his while she ! 



was speaking, and tried to meet her eyes. 
But she did not raise them from the floor. 
He stood a while, unable, in his emotion, to 
say more. He felt that it would be best to 
go in silence. 

He left the castle, and passed down the 
long avenue to the city, his eyes fixed upon 
the grass and the dry leaves at his feet. He 
felt as if the burden Elsie had spoken of 
was now rolled upon him. 

How could it be otherwise ? It was too 
overwhelming, what he had heard — this 
look into Elsie's open heart, the thought of 
what she had passed through, what she had 
suffered, and then of what he had done 
against her, in his blind, mad passion. 
Every wretched, distrustful thought he had 
cherished against her gnawed at his heart 
like a poisoned tooth; every word he had 
spoken against her in his insane suspicion 
came back to his memory like the stroke of 
a dagger. 

And what was to come of it all ? What 
was to come of him and his feelings toward 
her, that the last hour had made a thou- 
sand-fold more intense ? Could she ever 
forgive him the suspicion he had cherished 
against her, and the steps he had taken as 
an unfriendly inquisitor ? No, a proud and 
haughty heart like hers would never for- 
give it. What would it help him to show 
generosity in reference to the property she 
had defrauded him of, to make a parade of 
unselfishness ? She would regard this gen- 
erosity and unselfishness as the price he 
felt under obligation to pay to free himself 
from the shame he must feel for his treat- 
ment of her. 

But whatever price he paid, he could not 
clear himself in her eyes. It was impossi- 
ble. Though the circumstances had com- 
pelled her to accept his services and give 
him her hand as a friend, still she must 
always, in her heart, hold him in contempt 
for talking to her of his love while he was 
secretly plotting against her. 

And he could not explain to her what had 
driven him to this secret action ; he could 
not expect her to believe it, even if he 
could speak of it; but he had lost the right 
to speak to her from his heart. 

He could not complain of this; he had 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



147 



deserved it, fully deserved it. If he should 
search his inmost consciousness for the ul- 
timate motive of his action, he could find 
no other answer than that he had been pry- 
ing into the secrets of her life in vexation 
at her coldness, because he was hurt and 
angry, and wanted to revenge himself by 
humiliating her; and so he had nourished 
the meanest suspicion, had been absorbed 
in it for months, and had made himself 
contemptible; and now she was so nobly 
justified ! 

When he reached his home he told his 
sister the whole story. She was startled at 
the depth of his feelings; he was usually so 
reticent, she had not dreamed of what was 
passing in his mind. But now his reticence 
was broken; he felt that he could not live 
without confiding in the one he felt sure 
would understand him. She heard him in 
silence. She felt that she could say noth- 
ing that would be in harmony with the 
mood his words betrayed. Passion was a 
province she did not understand, and which 
she shrank from looking upon. But he did 
not want an answer; he was not talking to 
receive consolation or excite contradic- 
tion. He talked only as the wounded deer 
moans. 

At length, when he had finished, and sat 
broodingly looking at the fire, she said : • 

" Ferdinand, are you going to do nothing 
now?" 

"Do? what shall I do ?" 

" Do what there is most urgent need of 
doing; and that, I think, is, to help this 
poor woman, instead of sitting there in de- 
spair and brooding over the matter; to put 
an end to this hateful story of our lost pro- 
perty in such a way as to take that, at least, 
from her conscience. " 

"And how shall I do that?" he asked, 
eagerly. 

"Wisest of brothers! Do you ask ad- 
vice of me, an unpractical woman ? You 
must know best. Or ask Groebler. That 
matter must be settled, for that is the very 
thing that presses most heavily upon the 
princess; it could not be otherwise. If I 
knew you would receive advice from me in 
a business matter, I would make a proposi- 
tion." 



"What is it, Adele? Tell me, I^beg of 
you." 

"Let Frau Matilda Schott write to the 
Probate Court at H. that you are her near- 
est relative, and as you now live in the same 
place with her, and as she has confidence in 
you, and would like your assistance in the 
care of Irene, she begs the court to appoint 
you as Irene's guardian and give you the 
care of her property. I do not think the 
court would make any objection. The pre- 
sent guardian will then have to give every- 
thing into your hands, and then the princess 
and Matilda Schott can breathe freely; the 
matter will be off their consciences. When 
Irene is of age, she can renounce her right. 
Everything will then be arranged, and nc 
one else need be the wiser for it." 

Ferdinand looked at her in surprise. 

"In truth," he said, "that is a thought 
so simply practical that I admire you for it, 
Adele. That makes everything smooth and 
easy " 

"lam glad you think so. You do not 
believe the court will make any difficulty 
about it?" 

" No. The nearest relative has a right to 
a voice in the guardianship ; and if Matilda 
expresses a wish to have the change made, 
the court must grant it." 

"Then make arrangements at once to 
have it done. Talk it over with Matilda." 

"I will, I will," said Ferdinand, spring- 
ing up. "I will go and make it clear to 
her that the affair can be best arranged in 
that way. Let me embrace you, sister, for 
your good advice." 

He kissed her forehead and went away. 
Adele watched him as he went, rejoiced that 
she had succeeded in arousing him from his 
despairing reflections and sending him off 
with such an elastic step in a practical er- 
rand. 



148 



EIRE AND FLAME. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

WILLIAM KRONHORST's JOURNEY. 

It was not the most pleasant time of the 
year to take a pleasure trip, but William 
Kronhorst had run the risk of his father's 
surprise at such an idea, and left home the 
evening before, telling his father in a note 
that he was going to visit a friend on the 
Rhine. At noon the next day he reached 
the convent in Belgium to which Irene had 
gone. He sent his name to the superior as 
a messenger in behalf of the friends of the 
young lady, and a3 he had the telegram to 
show in proof of it, he was at once received. 
When the superior found the messenger to 
be a handsome young man, and one whose 
name indicated no relationship between him 
and the young lady, she possibly felt a little 
distrust; but she gave him, without hesita- 
tion, all the information she could; she had 
already sent it in a letter to the mother. A 
man probably from forty to forty-five years 
old, somewhat above the medium stature 
and strongly built, with an open face, tan- 
ned by wind and weather, and a full dark- 
blonde beard, had come a few days before 
on the day of the week appointed for the 
pupils to receive visits, and had asked to 
see Irene. He spoke German, but not very 
fluently, a little in the singing tone peculiar 
to Americans, and called himself Asthof. 
When Irene was informed, she was mani- 
festly very much startled, and said, excited- 
ly, that he was a near relative, and she would 
, see him. She had a long conversation with 
him in the parlor; the next visiting-day he 
came again. As he was a man of mature 
years and prepossessing appearance, there 
had seemed to be no reason for denying 
him another interview. This, too, had last- 
ed some length of time. The only notice- 
able thing about it was that Irene had been 
very quiet and apparently depressed that 
evening; she had eaten nothing at supper, 
and had not slept at night, but tossed rest- 
lessly about, as her neighbor in the dormi- 
tory reported. The next morning the young 
ladies, of whom there was a large number 
in the convent, had spent an hour in the 
garden after the first lesson-hour, and when 



they returned to the school-rooms, Irene was 
missing. They inquired and searched for 
her, but in vain; she must have gone into 
the shrubbery of the large garden — William 
could look from the windows over this gar- 
den which formed a moderate sized park — 
and must then have stolen through the gar- 
dener's house, which was the only place of 
exit, the entire garden being surrounded by 
high walls. The gardener and his assistants 
had been out at their work, and could not 
have seen her. Closer inquiry had brought 
out the fact that at the same hour a close 
carriage had stopped on a turnpike, about 
ten minutes' walk from the convent. There 
was, therefore, no longer anything mysteri- 
ous about the matter, except Irene's motive 
to an action, so incomprehensible and un- 
justifiable, raising such a commotion in the 
institution, and so injurious to its reputa- 
tion. 

"And what direction did the carriage 
then take ? Was that noticed?" asked Wil- 
liam. 

"Yes," answered the sister; "not toward 
the German border, but westward, into Bel- 
gium." 

That was all the good sister could tell 
him; she was anxious to know what should 
be done with Irene's effects which she had 
left behind. William assured her that Irene 
would most probably write to her to apolo 
gize for the step she had taken; it could be 
explained by a strange and unusual compli- 
cation of circumstances. Until that time he 
advised her to take no farther steps in the 
matter. He then took his leave, in order to 
continue his journey westward without loss 
of time. As the fugitives had little reason 
to fear pursuit and hasten their journey, he 
hoped to overtake them, at least by the time 
they reached the boat that should carry 
them to England. 

And, in fact, when he arrived at Ostend 
late in the evening, having taken the short- 
est route, and went on the steamer which 
lay in the harbor all ready to cross the chan- 
nel, he saw a man standing near the prow 
and quietly smoking a cigar, looking toward 
the light- houses that rose against the dark 
back-ground of the evening sky, and ob- 
serving the dazzling play of the lights from 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



149 



the great reflectors. According to the des- 
cription given by the sister superior at B. , 
this could be no other than the man with 
whom Irene had gone. William approached 
him with a beating heart. 

"Herr Asthof?" said he. 

The man turned; as far as could be seen 
from the light of the lantern by which a 
sailor not far off was packing up trunks and 
boxes, his face did not indicate very pleased 
surprise. After a pause he answered, some- 
what sharply: 

"What do you want of 'Herr Asthof?' " 

"First, that he will not be offended at 
my addressing him, even if I should call 
him by his right name, Herr Bonsart. " 

" Ah — you know me, then, well ?" said he. 
' J What is it you wish ?" 

" To introduce myself to you. My name 
is William Kronhorst. " 

Philip Bonsart, who did not seem the 
least inclined to deny his identity, bit his 
lips and looked at the young man with an 
expression rather hostile than encourag- 
ing. 

"William Kronhorst !" he said, mockingly. 
' The dead, they say, ride fast, but lovers, 
I see, are not easily outdone. Will you 
have the kindness to tell me why you have 
thought it necessary to rush after me liko a 
whirlwind?" 

"I may assume that Fraulein Irene has 
mentioned my name to you, and also, I 
hope, that you will be kind enough to par- 
don me for- following you in my anxiety 
about her, even at the risk of your displea- 
sure, which would be exceedingly painful to 
me." 

"Would it, inclee Well, then, you 
can very soon put an end to it by turning 
around and going the other way, when I 
tell you that my daughter is well taken care 
of, that she is safe on board the steamer to 
return with me to England. I think that 
ought to quiet your anxiety." 

William had grown a little pale at the 
man's words and his hostile tone. But he 
answered with so much the more determi- 
nation: 

"If she is under your protection, I need 
have no farther anxiety about her certainly. 
There remains only Irene's anxiety about 



me, and on that account I beg of you to let 
me speak with her. " 

Philip Bonsart looked steadily at him with 
contracted brows. 

"Why?" said he. "Don't you think it 
would be better for you to turn back and 
leave between you henceforth this channel 
we are going to cross, my daughter and I?" 

"I shall cross it, too; I shall accompany 
you on this steamer, and on your farther 
journey, until I have spoken with Irene. " 

"Plague!" said Bonsart, with a mocking 
smile; "you are a determined man; but if 
that is so, come." 

He turned and led the way to the lower 
part of the boat, and showed William into 
the cabin, which was now empty, most of 
the passengers being in their state-rooms 
busy with their preparations for the night. 
Bonsart disappeared in one of these state- 
room and returned immediately afterward 
with Irene, who uttered a low cry when she 
saw William; hurrying up to him, she threw 
her arms about his neck and exclaimed, 
amid a storm of sobs: 

"You are not angry with me, William, 
tell me, are you ? Oh, he will tell you all 
about it. I could not help it. When he 
tells you all, you will not be angry with 
me." 

"Irene, how should I be angry with 
you ? I was only anxious about you — my 
anxiety drove me in pursuit of you," whis- 
pered William. 

During this little scene Bonsart folded 
his arms across his breast and looked down 
gloomily at the young people. It was pro- 
bably a painful proof to him that he had 
only half won his daughter back, and must 
submit to it as unalterable; that his advice 
to William to leave the sea between them 
had so little prospect of being followed, 
and that he had come too late, if he had 
hoped to bind his daughter's life to his own. 

He turned away with a sigh; then he 
beckoned to William, and seated himself on 
a tabouret near the table, under one of the 
lamps that hung from the ceiling; William 
sat down on the sofa at the other side of the 
table, and Irene beside her father. Taking 
his right hand and holding it fast in her 
lap, she whispered: 



150 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



" Now tell liim all, father; lie must know 
all ; tell him why I have come with you and 
belong to you alone," and she closed her 
eyes and laid her head upon his arm. 

"I think it is, all things considered, best 
that I should tell you exactly how matters 
stand, Herr Ivronhorst. Otherwise, I am 
afraid Irene would take it upon herself to 
explain, and I prefer to do it myself. She 
has told me that she showed you the letters 
I sent. They were, of course, not intended 
for you; but as the thing is done, we can- 
not help it now, and it will enable me to 
make my story shorter. You know, then, 
that Irene is my daughter " 

"I know that," interrupted William, 
drawing a long breath; " but who her 
mother is — the one to whom you referred 
only with dark hints in the letters " 

" I will tell you that, too. I shall be glad 
to talk of Irene's mother, for she deserved 
to be well spoken of — she deserves Irene's 
respect and love; she was, indeed, simple 
and unlearned, but she was a beautiful and 
affectionate creature. She was a fresh, 
sweet wild flower, and if that dreadful, 
stupid political excitement had not come 
and carried me away in its current, and if 
the beautiful Elsie had not suddenly shown 
herself so sympathizing and enthusiastic 
toward the bold swimmer in the swift cur- 
rent of the time, and drawn him again to 
herself — just as the tin goose the children 
play with follows the magnet — then I should 
not have deserted that fresh wild-flower — 
reckless and wild that I was— for the splen- 
did centifolia; and I should have been 
happier. But young men are stupid and 
seldom pass by an opportunity to ruin their 
future, when they are drawn on by vanity. 

44 Well, as I said, she was a simple pea- 
sant girl. All she knew of books was what 
she had learned in the village-school, and 
from the few volumes that had fallen into 
her hands and were used to pass away the 
hours on Sunday afternoons. She had 
learned refined manners at my father's 
house, where she was often employed as 
help, because my mother loved her and she 
was apt and intelligent and willing. And how 
beautiful she was ! She had such an abun- 
dance of dark-brown hair, such a beautiful 



form, and clear gray -blue eyes, sometimes 
so roguish, sometimes serious; so shy and 
yet so trustful ! 

4 'It would have been better if I had 
never seen her, never noticed how beautiful 
she was — our wood-lark, as my mother often 
called her. But how could I help noticeing 
it, wild and vain as I was, and with my 
vanity constantly wounded by Elsie's haugh- 
tiness ? Elsie and I had grown up together 
at Asthof; we were accustomed to each 
other, we regarded ourselves as engaged; 
but enough of that. I will only say, this 
Elsie should not have treated me so. She 
should have made clear to herself what she 
really wanted; whether she could be my 
bride and belong to me for life or not; and 
then she should either have broken with me 
forever or have given me the regard and 
confidence due to her future husband. In- 
stead of that, "she held me fast by my am- 
bitious passion, and yet never gave me a 
moment of the quiet happiness one feels 
in assured possession, in the consciousness 
that he can rely upon the heart he calls his 
own. She was always criticising and blam- 
ing me; whe 1 1 looked for warmth and af- 
fection, she showed wit and coquetry, and 
the consciousness of superior rank; and es- 
pecially the desire to rule; and we were 
eternally at war in our letters. I had al- 
ways to be defending myself against her 
fault-finding; I was constantly bleeding 
from the wounds she gave my morbid van- 
ity. And, at length, after a hundred secret 
outbreaks of anger and desperation, I gave 
up all hope of her; I renounced her and 
told myself that she was naturally unfit to 
be a warm-hearted wife to any man. 

44 And so it happened that I was the more 
attracted toward our wood-lark, Marianne, 
Irene's mother — attracted by the charm a 
vain young man finds in a woman's com- 
plete devotion. She was the exact opposite 
of Elsie; she trusted me and looked up to 
me; in her maidenly humility, she coulJ 
not comprehend how a woman coelrl be 
haughty toward the man she loved. I shall 
never forget Marianne; she was so much 
better to me than I deserved; I shall hold 
I her memory in honor as long as I live; and 
j some day, as soon as possible, I shall take 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



151 



Irene to Asthof, and we, will seek out her 
grave together, and Irene shall kneel there 
and think of her as a mother most worthy 
the devotion of a child. 

" Well, to make my story short, I had 
given up Elsie, and as good as forgotten 
her, though we still exchanged cool, objec- 
tive letters, as old acquaintances; and so the 
time passed on — nearly two years. I was 
away from home most of the time, at the 
university, and busy with my preparations 
to enter on a political life; and then came 
the mad tumult of 1848. The storm natur- 
ally swept me on with it. Nature had 
given me hot blood, some gift at persuasion, 
and strong lungs; and that was all that was 
necessary at that time to make a man sud- 
denly great. When I think of all the po- 
litical nonsense I uttered and defended and 
grew angry over in my green youth — of all 
the excitement and dismay I and a crowd of 
other enthusiastic young fools brought into 
the venerable old swamp of that brave city 
H. ! I believe the Philistines we waked up 
there took me for a young Kobespierre, only 
needing time for full development. For- 
tunately for them, I did not have time; for 
troops came very soon, and we were driven 
back and scattered. I went to Southern 
Germany, and played the same part there. 
When I think now of all the exertion and 
fatigue I went through, I console myself 
with thinking how much I learned from it 
and what a preparation it was for my expe- 
rience in America. 

" But there was one, at least, who looked 
upon the part I played with anything but 
disapproval: that was Elsie von Melroth. 
She, too, was full of patriotic enthusiasm. 
She was a fanatic in the cause of Germany's 
greatness and its resurrection as a mighty 
united empire; and she began to transfer a 
part of her enthusiasm to me, looking upon 
me as a warrior for those beautiful patriotic 
ideas, and very soon as a sufferer, a martyr. 
Her entire manner seemed changed; her old 
hauteur was gone; she was all fire and en- 
thusiasm. 

" At that time I was, in truth, something 
like a martyr. After a short time of glory, 
a short time of revelling in hopes of victory 
and ambitious delusions, I had become a 



poor fugitive, a poor homeless, wandering 
devil; I had to bear the heavy sorrow, too, 
of the loss of Marianne. She had died 
after Irene's birth, in the utmost need; 
while I, who should have cared for her, im- 
agined it was more important for me to 
meddle with political affairs I did not un- 
derstand than to do my duty at home. Of 
course my brain was too much excited then 
for my conscience to trouble me greatly. 
In the general crash and wreck of all things 
— for so I regarded the failure of the great 
plans we had made for the fatherland and 
the world — in this universal wreck it seemed 
to me to be but a kind of logical result that 
what I had personally held dearest should 
also be lost. It seemed to give me a final 
release from my country; in a word, it 
seemed to be only what must have come. I 
did what I could at that distance to provide 
for the child Marianne had left, and then . I 
urged my father with redoubled persistence 
to send me the means for going to America. 

" There," he continued, after a pause, 
"you have the explanation you desired. 
If you would like to know now why Irene 
was not brought up as a simple country girl 
after her mother's death, but as a sort of 
adopted child of Elsie von Melroth, I will 
tell you." 

" Yes, I beg of you, tell me everything," 
said William. " You can imagine how anx- 
ious I am to hear." 

"I have already explained it to Irene at 
length," answered Bonsart. "Yesterday 
and the day before I made it clear to her at 
B. how her fate came to take the turn it 
has. With you I can be more brief. It is 
enough to tell you — but do you know the 
princess, Elsie von Melroth?" 

" Yes, I know her." 

" She is still a beautiful woman ?" 

"Beautiful and charming — or, at least, 
she would be charming if her manner had 
something more cordial, and cheerful, and 
companionable. But that is lacking. Her 
serious manner and her reticence, which are 
naturally taken, in a person of her rank, as 
coming from pride and contempt for others, 
chill and repel, and so sh© gives only the 
impression of great and unapproachable 
beauty. " 



152 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



" The same as ever, then ! Irene told me 
the same. Well, you can, then, imagine 
how easy such a woman found it to bring 
back the man she had held for years in her 
chains — to excite his ardor anew. I had 
lost Marianne; I had lost my hopes and my 
prospects in life; I was banished from my 
fatherland; how could I help turning with 
all my heart to this beautiful Elsie, when 
she seemed suddenly animated with the 
most enthusiastic affection for me, when I 
waked up one morning and found myself 
her hero — I, who had had so long suffered 
under her contemptuous and haughty treat- 
ment ! I was weak enough to forget it all, 
and devote myself to her with full confi- 
dence; and she knew how to reanimate my 
courage; my energy was reawakened; I be- 
gan to hope for better fortune across the 
sea, and I felt strong to struggle with fate 
for her sake. We exchanged vows of faith- 
fulness over and over again in our letters. 
So, at length, I went to America. To tell 
you all that happened to me there, would 
take days. It will be enough to say that, in 
that great republic, in its institutions and 
people and social conditions, I found a most 
discouraging contrast to the ideals of repub- 
licanism I had formed, and which I had 
saved from my political shipwreck. And 
was it not a bitter experience for me, who 
had made so many enthusiastic speeches 
about free government and republican bless- 
edness — had studied, as I thought, so ear- 
nestly and profoundly into political matters, 
had gathered so many fine ideas in my 
head — I had to find that this real republic 
in the West could make no other use of my 
organizing capacities and my willingness for 
service than to giva mo the place of carrier 
of a red republican newspaper, without a 
single article in it that I, the carrier and 
errand-boy, could not have written better ! 
But that was not my business; when the 
money I had taken with me was exhausted, 
I was thankful enough to . get the place of 
errand-boy and printer's devil, as they call 
it. This, however, I kept only three weeks; 
then I obtained a place as a teacher farther 
in the interior, at a boys' institute, which, 
unfortunately, was broken up three months 
afterward. But one of the boys that had 



been under my instruction recommended 
me to his father as book-keeper in a factory. 
This gave me a lucrative position, and as I 
emerged from the airy kingdom of my Ger- 
man ideals into the realm of practical things 
— to tell the truth, it was a kingdom redo- 
lent of soot and coal-gas — I advanced to 
still more lucrative positions. But I worked 
—worked like a horse — I had still one illu- 
sion left me, and that gave me no rest; the 
illusion that when I should have earned 
money enough and returned to Europe, I 
should find a true woman's heart to follow 
me and brighten all my future in that un- 
congenial world. An illusion, I say, for it 
was one. I made the journery to Europe 
two years after, only to return with a sense 
of bitterest disappointment and inexpressi- 
ble anger — alone, as I had come. When I 
saw Elsie again, I found, to my dismay, that 
the meeting gave her very little of the hap- 
piness I felt; I found her faint-hearted and 
shy at the thought of a union with me, and 
of tearing herself away from her life here to 
go into a strange world. " 

" But that was only natural, father," said 
Irene, laying both her hands upon his arm 
and looking up pleadingly. 

"It was natural, child," he answered. 
" You are right in that, and I no longer feel 
any resentment toward her. I have since 
learned to think differently from what I did 
then, and to understand how natural it was. 
At first I quieted her opposition by my pas- 
sionate feelings, and the words they sent to 
my lips. Everything was prepared for our 
secret marriage. Elsie left her home under 
some pretext, and came to Asthof. Then, 
as ill-luck would have it, the police discov- 
ered my presence and began to search for 
me. There were some obstacles to an im- 
mediate marriage, and Elsie would not go 
until the ceremony had been performed. 
In the dispute about it I grew angry and 
gave Elsie back her promise, made her free 
forever, if she would swear to fulfil one 
condition " 

"To take care of Irene?" interrupted 
William Kronhorst. 

"To take care of- Irene," repeated Bon- 
sart. "I had, of course, looked up the 
child when I came. I was dismayed to see 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



153 



how little tlie treatment she received, the 
whole surroundings in which I found the 
child, corresponded to the idea I had form- 
ed of them. And I felt so powerless to 
make it radically and permanently better; I 
had no one iu the world to whom I could 
entrust her in perfect confidence. So, in 
the moment of our angry parting, I told 
Elsie all; I demanded that if she would not 
be my wife, she should at least be something 
like a stepmother to my child. I demanded 
it, without really thinking what a burden I 
was placing upon her. She vowed it — what 
would she not have vowed to put an end to 
the torture of that moment? I had not an 
instant to lose, and I left her and fled like a 
felon out into the darkness, with anger and 
despair in my heart. I reached the nearest 
seaport without being overtaken, and took 
refuge on an American vessel, where I was 
sure of protection as an American citizen. 

"Now you know all," said Philip Bon- 
sart, in conclusion, "all you can ask to 
know to clear up whatever mystery there 
has been about Irene's life." 

"And," said William, eagerly, "I thank 
you most heartily for your unreserved con- 
fidence, Herr Bonsart." 

" I wish," interrupted Bonsart, with a de- 
precatory movement of his hand, "I wish 
that, instead of thanks, you would do me a 
similar service, and solve the riddle that has 
been puzzling me since yesterday." 

' ' Puzzling you ? What riddle is that ? " 

"Tell me how it happens that Irene 
should be the heiress to a large property. 
How can she, my daughter and poor Mari- 
anne's, have inherited an estate? That is 
what I should like to know. How can she, 
without deception and rascality?" 

" You would not think the Princess Ach- 
senstein and Frau Schott capable of that," 
said William, emphatically. 

Bonsart shook his head. "Not Elsie," 
he said; "no, not Elsie; she is too proud, 
much too proud to commit a felony. " 

"And Frau Schott?" 

" I do not know her so well. But if you 
can answer for her, very well. Nothing re- 
mains but to suppose that matters were so 
arranged by Major Schott when Irene was 
very young that in case he should die be- 



fore receiving some expected inheritance, it 
might not be lost; bat there should be a 
child as heiress, and thus the property , 
should not be lest to his widow." 

William doubted that. 

"It would be strange," he said, "for Ma- 
jor Schott to take upon his conscience an 
abominable deception which would be no 
benefit to him personally, but only to his 
widow after his death." 

"Why not?" said Bonsart. "There are 
men who take pleasure in such intrigues, 
men to whom tricks and frauds give satis- 
faction for their own sake; or to look at the 
matter in a charitable light, perhaps the 
major, who had no children of his own, 
loved the one he had taken into his family 
and as good as adopted, the same as if it 
were his. Perhaps he grieved to think that 
a fine property would after his death be lost 
to Irene; and so she was falsely passed off 
as his daughter." 

"That is possible," said William, doubt- 
ingly, while Irene said : 

"I can never believe it; he was so good, 
so honest, so open-hearted, Major Schott; 
and I loved him so much when I was a little 
girl, and he used to play with me, and gave 
me dolls; and sometimes, even, he helped 
me to dress them. " 

"Perhaps, then," said Philip Bonsart, 
"it was his wife; she may have ruled him and 
have compelled him to make Irene heir to 
that estate by passing her off as his child, so 
the she herself might not lose it in case she 
should be a widow before it should come to 
the family." 

"Frau Schott," said William, "is re- 
garded as a good, quiet, and not very ener- 
getic woman, who allows herself to be en- 
tirely controlled by her sister, the princess." 

"And the princess, again, I regard as a 
woman too proud and high-spirited to be 
capable of deception, or of consenting to it ■ 
— notwithstanding all the experience I have 
had with her. And so the matter remains a 
mystery. I should not trouble myself much 
about it, but should be contented with sim- 
ply regarding the connection between Irene 
and Frau Schott and her property as bro- 
ken forever." 

"But, father, you will certainly allow me 



151 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



to write to Frau Scliott, who was so long 
such a good and careful mother to me, and 
tell her how I shall always honor her and 
how 'I want to see her again ?" 

"Well, yes; that speaks well for your 
heart, child, and we can consider it and talk 
it over another time. For the present, I 
will only say that I was angry at myself yes- 
terday, when I first heard of the matter 
from Irene. If I had dreamed that my 
child was being used as the instrument of 
some disgraceful deception, I should not 
have made so much ceremony with these 
women in my thoughts." 

"But, father," exclaimed Irene, "how 
hard and hasty you are — how can you talk 
so and condemn them, when, as you your- 
self confess, it is all a mystery to you ?" 

"How I can condemn them? Why, I 
condemn myself for having been, even in 
my anger, such a soft-hearted, inconsiderate 
fool! So respectful toward those women, 
so careful to spare them ! You, Herr Kron- 
horst. will understand it. When I thought 
of Elsie and of Frau Schott, I thought of 
them as that good-hearted Emil Drausfeld 
represented them. You know — or do not 
know — that this good fellow was for years 
the only means of communication between 
me and Elsie and my child. After I had 
parted from Elsie, I felt too bitter toward 
her to write to her. She was still less in- 
clined to a correspondence; she probably felt 
some regret for the whole affair, for her 
faithlessness, and I was a living humiliation, 
an eternal reproach to her, and so her pride 
could not consent to any communication 
with me by letter. But I had nothing in 
the world but my child, and I could not 
bear to hear nothing from her. So at length 
I wrote to Emil Drausfeld, with whom I 
was very little acquainted, but whom Elsie 
had taken into her confidence, and who had 
come, like a true warning Eckart, to tell me 
that I was discovered and persued by the 
police, that time when I was to be married 
to Elsie at Asthof. So I wrote to this 
Drausfeld from over the ocean, when I had 
become somewhat settled there, and begged 
him to get news of Irene from Elsie and 
then write to me everything in her let- 
ter that concerned the child; but he might 



keep her letter and write to her that he 
should, so that she could write without con- 
straint and not imagine that I wanted to 
hear from her, and was only making a pre- 
text to renew our correspondence. I re- 
ceived the answer I desired from Emil 
Drausfeld; he told me what Elsie had 
written about Irene. In about half a year, 
perhaps, I wrote again, and so, to be brief, 
I kept myself informed in regard to Irene, 
and to Elsie also. I learned that Elsie — so 
at least she assured Drausfeld — was faith- 
fully and conscientiously fulfiling the con- 
dition under which I had given her her free- 
dom; that she had given the child to the 
care of a reliable family in H.,' where the 
Melroths lived; that she did not content 
herself with that, but very often went quiet- 
ly in the evening to visit Irene herself. 
Then I heard that her care for the poor child 
had become known and had been malicious- 
ly interpreted. Well, that was no more 
than was to be expected in a gossipy little 
place like H., or, indeed, in any place where 
there are respectable people, the height of 
whose happiness is to torture and defame 
their dear fellow-men. Elsie lost her father 
shortly afterward, and went to live with 
her sister, who had moved with her hus- 
band to a forlorn little garrisoned city in 
Lusatia or Lithuania. I bought a map in 
Chicago to look out the place where my 
child was, and the little nest was marked in 
such fine print that I had trouble to find it; 
for Elsie had taken the child there with her, 
and the Schotts passed it off as theirs, which 
they had left behind under Elsie's care on 
account of the milder climate of their home 
in the west; that sounded plausible, and 
could not arouse suspicion in any malicioi a 
Wend or Lithuanian; and I had no objec- 
tion to it; it seemed a very natural way of 
avoiding all difficulty. The years passed on ; 
I learned that the captain had become a ma- 
jor, then that he was dead; I learned that 
the sisters lived together, and how Irene 
was growing up and developing; how sho 
had grown to be a pretty and intelligent little 
lady, with a tendency to obstinacy and ro- 
guishness, how her musical performances 
left very much to be desired in the way of 
improvement, but that her talent for lan- 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



155 



guages was more satisfactory; how she wrote 
a very neat, pretty hand, and could express 
herself on paper with ease, though her or- 
thography was by. no means faultless; I 
heard all that, beside a memorable, though 
unfortunate attempt to distinguish herself 
in some difficult cooking enterprise." 

"Oh, father," said Irene, smiling, and 
giving him a slight tap on the arm, " how 
can you talk about all that now ?" 

"Hike to talk about it, child; to think 
with what deep emotion I read all these 
little details, as Elsie condescended to send 
them to me, or, to be just, which she wil- 
lingly gave in full, because her woman's 
tact told her what a father would like to hear 
about his child. But to go on with my 
story. I heard, too, the great news of El- 
sie's marriage; the poor girl who had once 
been so near giving her hand to a homeless 
man, a rabid democrat, had married a prince 
and put on a crown. Well, I could easily 
imagine how well a crown would become 
her proud head, and wished her all joy of 
her elevation, though I thought that real 
happiness could hardly be connected with 
the step that placed her on the throne of a 
petty, mediatized prince. To tell the truth* 
I felt a little humiliated; she could now 
have said to me, in triumph: 1 You see how 
wisely I acted in being deaf to your en- 
treaties, your reproaches, and your anger, 
that dark night, when you warned me of the 
consequences of my faithlessness, when' — 
but enough of that. Whatever might have 
been the feelings with which I heard of El- 
sie's brilliant marriage, I had long since ac- 
customed myself to think calmly of her. I 
no longer condemned her. I had ceased to 
be an idealist, forming wholly false concep- 
tions of women, and requiring impossible 
things of them. I had gradually been 
learning to know the world — the real, sober, 
practical, selfish world. America is a re- 
markably good school for such learning; 
and those American ladies, swaying idly in 
their rocking-chairs, had given me many a 
good and sensible idea about Elsie von Mel- 
roth that I never had had before. I told 
myself that it was, after all, better for both 
of us, that I could never have made her 
happy; we were both too hot-headed and 



independent to get on well together, and 
America — at least that side of American life 
where I should be obliged to move — was not 
just the clear and peaceful lake for such a 
proud swan as Elsie to move upon." 

Irene nodded wisely, and William re- 
marked that one could often see a Provi- 
dence in such turns of fate. 

"If your very young experience has 
brought you to that conclusion," said Bon- 
sart, good-humoredly, and smiling a little 
sarcastically, " we can regard it as settled. 
My altered opinion of Elsie's actions and 
character was not a little assisted, as I have 
told you, by what was written of her by 
Emil Drausfeld, who, of all men, said noth- 
ing but good, and, by the way, was, I 
think, a little in love with Elsie, or had 
been. But enough of that; I will make the 
story short; the satisfaction it gives nie, 
after so many long, lonely years of isolation 
among strangers, to have an opportunity to 
talk freely, makes me talkative and prolix; 
but in a word: in the course of time I came 
to think of Elsie von Melroth with such a 
reconciled and grateful feeling, that I be- 
came a martyr to this feeling. The more I 
longed for the end of my isolation to come, 
for a heart that should be mine, the more I 
realized that I could never be happy in a 
marriage with any of the American ladies I 
knew, the more I longed for Irene, the 
more eager grew my desire to grasp the 
simplest and most natural means that pre- 
sented itself to secure some domestic hap- 
piness, to give a purpose to my life, and 
not work on stupidly for the mere satisfac- 
tion of possessing a thousand or two dollars 
more at the end of the year than at the be- 
ginning. I wanted to reclaim my daughter, 
my property; Elsie should restore her to 
me; I would come back to the Old World 
to get her; this was in my thoughts for 
months — no, for years; and yet I did not 
venture to go about it vigorously and de- 
cidedly. I was so grateful to Elsie and her 
sister for all they had done for the child, for 
their years of trouble and care. The two 
childless women must have grown accus- 
tomed to Irene, must be devotedly attached 
to her. And, then, had not Irene, too, 
grown accustomed to them; was she not 



156 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



completely happy where she was — so near 
the princess, who must live in brilliant 
style ? I imagined how it must be in a little 
court like that; how merry the life there 
might be, how many pleasures of all kinds, 
how many things to satisfy the little vanity 
of a woman, who would find it hard, after 
having been the centre of the homage and 
flatteries of an aristocratic circle, to be 
transferred to an entirely different world. 
So I felt that I would be doing a cruel and 
brutally selfish thing in taking the child 
from Elsie, and at the same time tearing 
Irene away from a happy and brilliant life. 
At last I came to a decision; I could apply 
first to Irene; I could learn what her real 
position was, and how she herself would 
look upon the prospect of a change. So I 
decided to write to her, at first only as an 
experiment, and in an indefinite way, that 
would betray nothing. Only when I had 
received answers that showed me I had 
formed very false conceptions of Irene's 
position — that her life was by no means that 
of a little princess, surrounded with atten- 
tions and revelling in pleasure — only then 
did ^explain myself = more clearly and go to 
work with decision to accomplish my pur- 
pose. Well, I need not tell you about the 
correspondence; you know already. Irene 
at length wrote to me that they had found 
it advisable to send her to B. , to a large and 
celebrated school, kept by nuns. Of course, 
the first thing that suggested itself was that 
I go at once to see Irene and talk over mat- 
ters freely with her, leaving it to her to de- 
cide then whether she would go with me or 
not. I accordingly went to B., and had no 
difficulty in obtaining an interview with my 
daughter. I need not describe my pleasure 
at seeing her — to you, of all men, Kron- 
horst — and my pleasure at the warm, hearty 
reception she gave me; to me, who must 
have looked a little strange and wild to her; 
her manner had nothing reticent or repel- 
lant about it; she told me openly and 
frankly what was in her heart. During our 
conversation, in the descriptions and ac- 
counts we gave each other of our past lives, 
and our discussions about what was now to 
be done, 3 learned a fact entirely new to me, 
one of which Ernil Drausfeld had never 



written a syllable— that Irene had inherited 
a large property from a banker, Schott, in 
H. — a man I remember, as I once transacted 
some business with him, never dreaming 
that his money would be the inheritance of 
my daughter; well, that Irene had received 
this property, and her supposed mother, 
Frau Schott, lived comfortably on the in- 
terest of it, and that Irene's expenses at B. 
were probably paid from the same source. 
I was inclined at first to believe that Irene 
was mistaken, that, with an ignorance par- 
donable in a young girl, she confused Frau 
Schott's possessions with her own. But I 
was most unpleasantly surprised when she 
assured me that she could not be mistaken; 
that th.3 old banker had made no will, by 
which Frau Schott could have been the 
heiress, and that the major had made none, 
which was probable, as he died before the 
banker; but that she, Irene, received the 
inheritance because she Avas passed off as a 
Schott, a daughter of the major, as she her- 
self supposed she was. This made it evi- 
dent to me that Irene had been made the 
instrument of a fraud, that I had been a 
fool with my soft-hearted scruples about 
injuring Elsie and hurting her feelings, that 
I should have done better if I had interfered 
before and taken Irene away from a position 
where she was being made to play a dishon- 
orable and villainous part. The explana- 
tion I gave Irene excited her and made her 
more inclined to conform to my wish that 
she should tear herself away from her pre- 
sent circumstances and those she had re- 
garded as her family, and go with her poor, 
solitary father. So far, the affair would 
have been satisfactory, had not Irene given 
me some shy hints of another fact not alto- 
gether pleasant for me. In the picture she 
gave me of her life, a new and, to me, 
strange form began to appear on the canvas; 
it gradually advanced from the shadowy 
background where it had first come to v^e v 
into a doubtful half-light; this made me a 
little suspicious; but at length a tremor in 
the voice and a peculiar embarrassment 
with which Irene pronounced the name, 
William Kronhorst, threw a blaze of light 
on the form of that fortunate youth. 

" * William Kronhorst!' I cried, startled 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



157 



and vexed; and I am afraid my tone 
wounded my daughter's tender feelings a 
little " 

Here lie was interrupted in his story by 
Irene, who exclaimed: 

"Now, father, you are too bad, to talk so 
sarcastically of all that; you should not 
talk of it at all ; if it must be told, I would 
much rather tell William myself. 

Bonsart smiled good-humoredly. 

" I was not speaking sarcastically, child," 
he answered; " not at all. If you think the 
impression made upon me by my discovery 
when we sat talking at the convent in B. 
put me into a joking mood, you are mis- 
taken. Quite the contrary ! The more you 
assured me that it was a very serious matter, 
and the more I became convinced that it 
was not a mere juvenile notion, the more 
dissatisfied and perplexed I grew about the 
whole affair. You cannot blame me for 
that, and if Herr Kronhorst blames me for 
confessing it so bluntly, I cannot help it; it 
is so, and I think it is very natural. I 
hoped to find my child whole and sound, 
and I find that a good share of her heart is 
lost for me; that I have come too late; that 
my fatherly care and satisfaction in finding 
a good husband for her will never be needed ; 
that this gives me pain, no one can wonder 
or be offended at. But as I am not to talk 
about it, we will say no more on the subject. 
I will only add, to Herr William, that the. 
end of it all was, I resolved to take Irene 
away from the convent at once. If ttiey 
had recklessly passed Irene off for a Sehott, 
to give her an inheritance to which she had 
not the slightest right, it was clear that I 
was under no obligation to stand on cere- 
mony, or show them the consideration I 
should otherwise have had for the women 
who had taken care of Irene. I saw at 
once that it would be hard to come to an 
agreement with them; for, after what they 
had done, they would certainly make every 
exertion to continue the deception. If I 
had applied to them, they would have be- 
gun by removing Irene from the school, and 
have done all in their power to make it im- 
possible for me to see her. I think that 
would have been the first result of a peace- 
able application to them. As you must 



agree to that, you will admit that the bes* 
and safest thing for me to do was to take 
Irene from the convent and bring her away 
with me. I succeeded in doing that with- 
out difficulty. Irene herself was so much 
excited about the .role of heiress she had 
been made to play, that she was the more 
ready to come with me. Now, young man, 
you understand the whole affair; and when 
you hear the people at home talk it over and 
condemn my conduct, you can tell them 
how things stand and why I have acted as I 
have. However, if you want to spare the 
ladies, and that will be best, you may be 
silent about the matter. If you want to do 
still better for them, you may go to them, 
and say everything good in behalf of Philip 
Bonsart, and that, in case they do not pro- 
voke him by some unwise measure, they 
will be safe from all disturbance and all in- 
discretion on his part, and can be assured 
that he will think of them only with the 
most sincere gratitude for what they have 
made of this little blossom; and she herself 
will never forget " 

"Oh, no, surely not, never," interrupted 
Irene, eagerly. "I must believe my father 
when he says they have done a great wrong, 
but my heart remains the same for them, 
and I cannot endure the thought of being 
forever separated from them. I shall not 
be satisfied until my father has solemnly 
promised that I may write to them, and that 
when everything has been arranged by let- 
ter, I may visit them again — if they do not 
condemn poor Irene too severely because 
she could not do otherwise than follow her 
father, and are willing to see her again." 

" Do not be anxious, Irene; it will all be 
settled satisfactorily," said William, taking 
her other hand. " There is nothing so very 
bad about it; and as regards the inheritance, 
we may assume, while we are waiting for 
farther explanations, that they can show pal- 
liating circumstances; perhaps they were 
forced to act as they did by circumstances 
that left them no alternative, and which we 
do not understand " 

"Oh, surely," said Irene; "it is surely 
so !" 

"And now," continued William, "what 
I am most anxious about is, that Herr Philip 



im 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



Eonsart should givo me permission to talk 
about these altered circumstances with my 
father " 

" The great Iron Baron," interrupted Bon- 
sart, "do you think he will be more in- 
clined to grant your request when he learns 
that Irene is Philip Bonsart's daughter? 
That is a very bold presumption in you, 
youugman ?" 

William Kronhorst might have had some 
such feeling himself. He was silent a mo- 
ment, and then said: 

"At least, I beg your permission to talk 
with him, Herr Bonsart." 

"That I cannot refuse you. I consider 
frankness the best policy in everything, and, 
therefore, I do not conceal from you what I 
think of the matter and how I console my- 
self. I have so long neglected my child and 
left her to the care of others, that I do 
not now feel as if I had a right to complain 
of her as I find her. She is mine again and 
I am very happy over it; she knows how 
happy, and so she has heroically resolved to 
go out into a strange world with her lonely 
father. She is mine again," he repeated, 
taking her hand and stroking it tenderly as 
he looked into her eyes, " but she has only 
given herself back to me as I found her. I 
found her with a heart that belonged to 
another, as she did not for a moment con- 
ceal from me. It was like receiving an 
estate with a mortgage upon it. The mort- 
gage is in favor of Herr William Kronhorst, 
and I am obliged to recognize it; it cannot 
be discharged, can it, Irene ? So you have 
my permission to talk with your father 
about it, and to expect as much from the 
conversation as your juvenile hopefulness 
will allow you to; and then we shall see 
what will come of it and what is to be done 
next." 

While this conversation had been going 
on in the cabin, the noise on the deck had 
increased; there were sounds of hasty feet 
and Ciies of confused voices; the great 
ropes fell heavily on the deck, the wheels 
began to beat and toss the water, and with 
a shudder the boat started out into the 
channel. 

William Kronhorst had not thought of 
leaving the botft; there was nothing that re- 



quired his return to his home. And Bon- 
sart was probably glad of his company, as 
it gave him an opportunity to learn some- 
thing of the character and disposition of 
the man, anxious to become so nearly con- 
nected with him. 

Long after Irene had gone to her berth, 
the two men sat together in a quiet corner 
of the cabin. Bonsart first encouraged 
William to talk of his home, and describe 
the kind of life from which Irene had come. 
Then he gave detailed descriptions of his 
own changeful and adventurous life, talking 
so openly and frankly as to make William 
feel that he had made a favorable impres- 
sion on Irene's father. He learned that 
Bonsart's efforts had at length given Mm a 
good position and a fair amount of pro- 
perty. He was a partner in a New York 
firm, and managed their business in New- 
castle, where they had an iron foundry and 
machine-shop. He had accumulated a pro- 
perty which would replace at least one half 
of what Irene had lost. When they at 
length rose, Bonsart shook William's hand 
cordially. 

" You are an honorable and solid man, I 
believe," he said, "and now that I know 
you, I am more resigned thsc I wa? before 
to the mortgage and the impossibility of 
discharging it. But, to speak plainly, it 
seems to me neither necessary nor best for 
you to accompany us any farther. You can 
understand that for a time now I would like 
to have my child to myself. So, if you 
please, we will part to-morrow in Dover; 
you can return, and write to us what the 
Iron Baron says about the matter. " 

William saw the reasonableness of the 
request and consented willingly. When 
they had landed the next day in Dover, he 
accompanied them to the depot, where they 
were to take the train for London. While 
they were waiting, Irene took him aside, 
and, with tears in her eyes, whispered: 

" Isn't my father good, William— isn't he 
real good?" 

"Yes, Irene," answered the young man; 
" he is a good, noble man, and deserves our 
perfect confidence; he has won mine as fully 
as he has a right to yours." 

"Oh, William, how thankful I am to hear 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



159 



you say that ! Ifc is so good of you, Wil- 
liam; I love hiin so; he has had such a hard 
and lonely life ! Think, William, how 
lonely ! And now, William, there is one 
thing I want you to do — to go to all of 
them, to Aunt Elsie, to my adopted mother, 
and to Adele von Schott; don't forget to go 
to Adele, too. And tell them everything; 
we have no longer anything to conceal. Tell 
them how my father found me, and how I 
came with him; how I could not help com- 
ing with him; I couldn't help it, could I? 
Tell them that, and tell them how good and 
kind he is. But tell them, too, how much 
I love them, and that I will never forget 
them, never, in spite of all my father says 
about their doing wrong. They have been 
good to me as long as I can remember, and 
I owe everything I am to them; I shall 
never forget it. Will you tell them that, 
and ask them to forgive me and to have no 
anxiety about me? Will you promise me 
that you will ?" 

"Certainly, I will promise you, Irene; 
and do not weep ; you will see them again ; 
for some day I shall carry you back from 
this England; I shall, no matter what hap- 
pens; I shall take you back to our home and 
to your father's rightful home." 

As he said this, Philip Bonsart stepped 
up and separated them. He and Irene en- 
tered the train, which soon after started, 
and William went back to inquire when the 
next steamer would leave. 

When he returned home, he made it his 
first business not to talk with the "Iron 
Baron," or to deliver Irene's messages to 
the ladies, but to look up Herr Groebler. 

"Herr Groebler," he said, "I came to 
tell you that no one ever did me a greater 
favor than you did in making me your 
agent, as you called it. I found Irene and 
her father. My heart is freed from a heavy 
burden, and my great anxiety now is that I 
shall never be able to repay you for what 
you have done for me in confiding in me 
first. Will you promise always to think of 
me when you are in a position to need a 
friend?" 

Herr Groebler took his offered hand and 
shook it heartily. 

" Your gratitude proves your good heart," 
11 



he said; "but it was in pure selfishness 
that I sent you — to spare myself a journey. 
But I will accept your promise, and as it's 
best to strike while the iron is hot, I will 
take advantage at once of your willingness 
to be sacrificed and ask for an exhaustive 
account of your experiences. Take a seat 
and tell me everything, exactly and mi- 
nutely." 

William gave an exact report. Groebler 
listened intently and then said: 

"What strange turns men's destinies 
take, and how much more wonderful results 
fate can bring about than even the man 
that brings up a fox and a rabbit, or a 
hunting-dog and a partridge, peaceably in 
the same cage ! Just imagine at your com- 
ing wedding the fraternal embrace of this 
state traitor, Bonsart, and the detective, 
Groebler, who, it is to be hoped, will be 
among the invited guests. It will make a 
fine closing effect for a strange drama I" 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

adele's inteefebence. 

Several months had passed, bringing 
many changes. They had covered the trees 
with green and the fields with springing 
blades; they had filled the forests with 
song; had cheered the spirits of the rooks 
that had been cawing so sullenly from the 
roofs of the old minster, and sent them flut- 
tering about in the sunny air; had given 
new courage to the despairing ducks, now 
splashing about in the half-dried pond be- 
fore the old nunnery. The building itself 
still lay in the shadows thrown by the tall 
church. Shadows, too, lay on the life of 
the youngest member of the household, 
who, since Easter, had been obliged to go 
to school day after day, to the great detri- 
ment of the education of sundry squirrels 
and fishes, and a young kestrel, which, to- 
gether with an obstinate silver watch, that 
still held regularly on its course, notwith- 



IGO 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



standing the cuffs and thumps of many a 
small battle, were his own and his pride. 
But Cail bent to the command of duty and 
went regularly to school, for the dark sha- 
dows on the brow of his guardian inspired 
him with wholesome awe, and made him 
resigned to the inevitable must. 

But the greatest change of all — a change, 
not from darkness and chill to sun and sum- 
mer, had come to Castle Achsenstein. It 
had lost its master. Prince Gottlieb Anton 
had nearly recovered after his attack; he 
had felt so well and strong, that during the 
Easter holidays he wanted guests around 
him; they had come in only too great 
numbers; the prince had been too regard- 
less of the physician's directions in regard 
to diet during these and the succeeding 
days. One evening he had another stroke, 
and lay unconscious till sundown the next 
day, when he died. His will gave nothing 
to his widow, except what had been secured 
to her by the marriage settlement, the use 
of an estate in the Wetterau, and a respect- 
able annual income. Elsie was still living 
at Achsenstein, where Prince Waldemar, 
the oldest son of Gottleib Anton, had now 
taken up his residence. She was waiting 
for her estate to be put in order before mov- 
ing there, and her sister was preparing to 
go with her. 

After his return from Dover, William 
Kronhorst had talked with the princess and 
her sister, and told them everything Irene 
had asked him to. Elsie had listened, evi- 
dently with a lightened heart, to all he had 
to tell about Irene's present position and 
about Philip Bonsart. She did not eonceal 
from him how heartily she sympathized with 
his love for Irene, or her hope to see Irene 
again — a hope that depended on his bring- 
ing her back sooner or later as his wife. 
She asked many questions about Philip 
Bonsart and listened attentively to all Wil- 
liam had to tell about his changeful life. 
She expressed no blame for the sudden and 
unceremonious way in which he had carried 
off Irene. 

He had a right to her and did not need to 
parlay long with any one about it, she said, 
in reply to her sister, who was extremely 
angry at Bonsart for his way of managing 



the affair and giving £them both so much 
anxiety, causing her sleepless nights, and 
leading Elsie, in her excitement and grief, 
to suspect and accuse innocent persons. 

William Kronhorst could have answered 
these complaints against Bonsart's way of 
proceeding. He could have explained to 
her what had induced Irene's father to take 
charge of her so suddenly. But he did not 
venture on that part of the subject; he 
naturally shrank from letting them know 
that he had been initiated into their secrets. 

After this conversation, he collected his 
courage for a decisive interview with his 
father. 

At twilight of the same day he stepped 
into the large room his father used as a 
study. It presented a striking contrast to 
the other and luxuriantly-furnished apart- 
ments of the villa. With a peculiar filial 
piety, Herr Kronhorst had collected here 
all the furniture his father had used in his 
room; the writing-desk, with its drawers 
and shelves; the old settees and chairs, and 
a little old piano that had belonged to his 
mother. He contented himself with these 
poor and faded relics of a half century be- 
fore; they served to remind him of the 
narrow circumstances in which his father's 
life had passed, and on how small and mod- 
est a scale he himself had begun his suc- 
cessful career. 

As William entered, his father was stand- 
ing at the window, looking over some memo- 
randa by the fading daylight. He laid down 
the book and motioned his son to take his 
grandfather's great old leather chair, while 
he himself went for a cigar. 

" I would like to claim your attention for 
some time, father," William began; " h^ive 
you leisure now ?" 

" If you have anything important to say, 
we will take the leisure. Is it business, or 
have you some travelling adventure to tell 
me about ?" 

"Not that, not either of them, although 
I shall have to speak about my journey; 
first, of the reason and real purpose of my 
journey." 

" The real purpose — was it, then, some 
other than the one you gave me to under- 
stand ?" 



FIKE AND FLAME. 



10] 



"Yes, quite a different one. I do not 
know whether you have heard that Irene 
was sent to the convent of Blumenthal. " 

"To be sure I have heard of it, and I 
think the reason why it was done is not 
hard to guess." 

"Perhaps so; but I did not begin the 
subject to discuss that. I was going to tell 
you, father, that a few days ago, Frau 
Schott was surprised by the news that Irene 
had been abducted from the convent." 

" Abducted ? Irene ? By whom ?" 

" That was the question, and to find an 
answer to it, I lost no time in putting myself 
on the road as soon as I heard of the mat- 
ter." 

"Ah, that was the cause of your sudden 
departure ?" 

' ' That was it. You must forgive me, 
father, for giving you a false reason; I was 
too anxious about Irene " 

"Well, well," interrupted Herr Kron- 
horst, blowing great clouds from his cigar, 
" did you succeed in clearing up the mys- 
tery?" 

" Yes; I overtook Irene and the. abductor, 
saw them, and talked with them." 

" Indeed ! And who was the abductor ?" 

" Her father, Philip Bonsart!" 

"You talked with that man ?" 

" Yes, a whole night, on the passage from 
Ostend to Dover. We talked together very 
freely; he told me all about his circum- 
stances and Irene's history. He has no- 
thing against my suit for Irene's hand." 

"Hasn't he?" said Herr Kronhorst, sar- 
castically. " But why, "he continued, "did 
he take his daughter away from Blumen- 
thal?" 

"Because he wanted her with him; he 
was leading a lonely life; and because no 
one else had a right to her." 

" No one ?" 

" No, no one; her mother died long, long 
ago." 

" Are you so certain of that ?" 

"Yes, perfectly certain. Philip Bonsart 
told me who Irene's mother was — a poor, 
simple peasant girl, who died soon after 
Irene's birth." 

" He told you that him^lf ?" 

"Yes. He told me the whole story of 



his life — how he grew up on the same estate 
with Princess Aschsentein; how he very 
early regarded her as his betrothed; how 
they quarrelled and he regarded his relation 
to her as broken off, and the girl who after- 
ward " 

"It seems, in truth," interrupted Herr 
Kronhorst, "that this virtuous man, who 
once made himself very notorious here as a 
democrat — not exactly here in this part of 
the country, but there was a great deal in 
the newspapers about him — it seems that he 
was very frank and confidential with you ?" 

"Yes, father; his whole nature is per- 
fectly frank and upright; if you only knew 
him, you would love him ?" 

"I have some doubt of that," answered 
his father, drily; "but even if it were so, I 
hardly think it would help us much. It 
would not alter the facts. Was there any- 
thing more you wanted to say ?" 

" I was going to say that I can, therefore, 
give you information now about Irene's 
origin — facts I had not the slightest sus- 
picion of when I first asked your consent to 
my marriage with Irene " 

" And then you are going to ask my con- 
sent again?" 

" Yes, certainly, father, and this time in 
the firm hope that you will not be so hard 
and cruel, for if you refuse me again now — 
but no, you cannot and will not." 

" And if I should ?" 

William did not answer. He looked at 
his father with a pale and beseeching face. 

The father took a few turns up and down 
the room. Then he said: 

" You see, William, you are truthful and 
reliable; you know nothing, thank God, of 
trickery and lying, and, therefore, you do 
not believe in trickery and lies in others." 

"Do you mean that I ought to see trick- 
ery and lies in what Irene's father told me?" 

"Yes, my son, in spite of the fact that, as 
Irene's father, he seems to you worthy of 
all respect. In spite of that I" 

"You will never convince me of that!" 

" That may be; but just as little can you 
bring me to absolute faith in what this man 
has told you." 

"Then I must get him to lay the proofs 



162 



FERE AND FLAME. 



in black and white before my incredulous 
father." 

4 4 If he can!" 

"You will see that it "will be easy for him. 
There must be baptismal records and public 
registers of everything." 

"We shall see," said Kronhorst. "In 
the meantime, I do not want you to reproach 
me secretly with being less frank with you 
than this Herr Bonsart seemed to be. I 
will tell you, unreservedly, what led me to 
act as I did. You have a right to know it. 
I see, to my sorrow, that the affair has be- 
come so serious to you, that I should be do- 
ing wrong to leave you in the dark about 
anything relating to it, anything that can 
help bring you to reason. Perhaps I should 
have done better to talk freely with you be- 
fore. But I could not without touching on 
a subject one appro ches with reluctance, es- 
pecially an elderly man in conversation with 
his children." 

' ' And yet, father, ' ' said "William, < < 1 would 
have been so grateful to you if you had told 
me openly why you were so strongly opposed 
to what involves my happiness, my future, 
all my hopes in life. " 

"A time will come when you will not take 
it so tragically. " 

"That time will never come," said Wil- 
liam, firmly. 

"Well, then, hear. You can imagine 
that when years had softened my sorrow at 
the loss of your mother, I began to wish to 
fill her place in my house. The place such 
a woman occupied in my heart could, I felt, 
never be filled. But it was possible that I 
might find a true, loving woman who would 
take her place at my side, share my duties 
with me, and give me a new domestic life." 

"Certainly, certainly, father," said Wil- 
liam, eagerly, "that was but natural; and 
we children were just as anxious to see some 
one to take the lead in the house, some one 
who would have loved us for your sake." 

"Well, and so, when Frau Schott moved 
into our neighborhood, I thought of her. I 
found her amiable and womanly, without 
any tendency to that domineering spirit an 
elderly man has to fear in a second mar- 
riage; in short, I had made up my mind, and 
was about to offer her my hand when she 



told me that, in view of the confidence I 
had shown her, she felt it her duty to give 
me an account of all her circumstances. 
She told me Irene was not her daughter, 
but an adopted child of her sister, the 
princess; the daughter of the princess' 
former lover, Philip Bonsart, and a peasant- 
girl; when their engagement was broken, 
Philip had given the child into the care of 
the princess. As Frau Schott was better 
fitted to adopt the child than a young girl, 
she and her husband had decided to let the 
child pass as theirs." 

" This statement, as you can understand, 
suprised and shocked me. If Irene was 
Philip Bonsart's daughter, and "adopted 
child" of his former betrothed, the princess, 
it seemed pretty certain that she was no 
other than the daughter of the princess; and 
Frau Schott had probably long ago sworn to 
her sister never to betray it; so that she 
could not confess it to me, but invented a 
nameless forgotten peasant-girl, whose ac- 
tual existence seemed very doubtful to me." 

' 5 Oh, father, you did her a wrong, a great 
wrong!" 

"You think so. Well, hear the -rest. 
She confessed to me what pain and anguish 
of conscience she had felt when, in conse- 
quence of Irene having passed as her child, 
the large property of the banker Schott, 
had been assigned to her as the next heir, 
without any farther questions being asked. 
She could not refuse the property, because her 
sister had, in the meantime, become Princess 
of Achsenstein, and the prince was distrust- 
ful and suspicious, and if the matter were 
explained to him, he would believe — well, 
just what I believe without being a very dis- 
trustful or suspicious man either." 

"And yet so wrongly and falsely, father," 
exclaimed William, 4 1 so wholly false ! " 

"It may be so," answered Herr Kron- 
horst, coolly. " But that was not all. What 
vexed and angered me most in the matter 
was to see how little conscience women can 
have about important business matters and 
legal rights. These women were in posses- 
sion of a large property that did not belong 
to them, and yet they had no apprehensions 
of a time when the rightful heirs might 
come forward and expose them to all the 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



1G3 



world, and have them condemned as crimi- 
nals ! Can you comprehend that ? ' ' 

"No; that I cannot." 

"As you would suppose, I discontinued 
my attentions to Frau Schott, who would 
not take my advice to act in a straightfor- 
ward way and listen only to the voice of her 
conscience. Bat the matter interested me 
so much, that I made inquiries about Irene's 
origin through a confidential business friend 
atH." 

"Oh, father, was your incredulity as 
strong as that ?" 

"It was* as strong as that; and, unfortu- 
nately, it was only made still stronger by the 
results of my inquiries." 

William shook his head, and looked de- 
spondingly at the floor. 

"Of course," continued his father, * I 
made sure that the inquiries were conducted 
with secrecy and care. The result was that, 
many years ago, it had come to the ears of 
many people at H. that there was a child, a 
daughter of Elsie von Melroth." 

"Of course," said William. "Philip 
Bonsart told me that a few benevolent tea- 
table gossips in H. had made such a discov- 
ery " 

" That may be — that he said so. He may 
have said everything necessary to avoid 
compromising the princess. It is natural 
that he should desire not to expose her. 
But hear the rest. My inquiries also brought 
out the fact, that in the church register of 
the parish to which Asthof belonged, the 
village where Irene was said to have been 
born, there is absolutely no record of a 
daughter of Philip Bonsart, and none in the 
register of the neighboring parish." 

"What does that prove?" said William, 
anxiously. "It is natural that Irene's mo- 
ther should not have given Philip Bonsart's 
name." 

"That may be,'' answered Herr Kron- 
horst. "Bat, William, you have under- 
standing enough not to blame me if, under 
the circumstances I insist on my original 
idea of the matter. I cannot give my con- 
sent to your marriage with a girl of such 
origin, whether she is the daughter of the 
princess, as I think, or of a peasant-girl, as 
you think. She is no wife for my son and 



heir. It is not a trifling matter to be the 
heir of such a property, of such a name and 
position. I am not acting in an unfatherly 
way when I ask you to consider, that when 
we have the benefit of any good-fortune, we 
should be willing to bear the burdens and 
inconveniences connected with it; that we 
must fulfill the duties connected with any 
right. It is your duty not to bring into the 
house I have founded by my own efforts and 
which I hope to keep free from all dishonor, 
a wife who may bring into it the disgrace of 
a wretched scandal — a scandalous suit, as 
soon as the rightful heirs demand the inheri- 
tance they have been defrauded of and the 
interest they have been losing all these 
years." 

"Can I not, then, give up the property, 
and pay the interest?" 

Herr Kronhorst smiled. 

"Good-natured fathers," he said, "some- 
times pay little debts for their sons-in-law. 
But you can hardly expect me to welcome a 
daughter-in-law, with whom I should have 
to begin by paying a heavy sum; although 
I do not require that you should consider 
the question of property in choosing a wife. 
Let the one you choose have nothing, no- 
thing whatever but an honorable family and 
an unsullied name — that I must insist upon I 
This is my final decision in the matter, Wil- 
liam. Do not think that I do not sympa- 
thize with you and know how much you suf- 
fer. I wish most heartily that the case were 
otherwise, that it were not my duty to speak 
as I do. But as I believe it is, I cannot do 
otherwise. Bear it like a man and try to 
forget. Irene is separated from you now. 
You will, I hope, never see her again, and 
it is a great comfort to me to think so i" 

William said nothing. He saw there was 
no hope of a more favorable decision now, 
and that any farther words from him would 
only make his father more hard and severe. 

He rose and laid his cold, damp hand 
hastily in the one his father offered, and 
withdrew, avoiding his father's eyes. 

His firm resolve to marry Irene was not 
shaken by what his father had said, neither 
was his faith in the truth of Bonsart's state- 
ments. At first he thought he would con- 
vince his father of their truth by going to 



164 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



Asthof himself, and getting the proofs his 
father's agent in H. had failed to find. He 
went to Groebler to talk with him about it. 
But Groebler dissuaded him. ' f These pa- 
rish registers," he said, " are often very 
carelessly kept by the clergymen. Some- 
times they get the names entirely wrong, 
especially when they are as uncommon as 
Irene; so that it is very uncertain whether 
you would be any more successful than your 
father's agent was. But supposing you 
should be; what advantage would it be to 
you? What change would it make? It 
would not make Irene what your father 
would think a desirable daughter-in-law. " . 

William could but acknowledge that Groe- 
bler was right; he, therefore, contented him- 
self with reserving the journey for some fu- 
ture time, and went to seek consolation 
from Adele. He would talk to her freely; 
he had a presentiment that she would be 
the one to set everything right. It looked, 
too, as if Adele's influence over Herr Kron- 
horst was increasing every day; that he 
thought to find in her the one of whom he 
had talked with his son. He sought the 
society of her brother more and more, and a 
very lively intercourse had sprung up be- 
tween the two families. 

But this state of affairs placed Adele in a 
somewhat embarrassing position. She was 
suddenly called upon to listen to William's 
confidence. He seemed to regard her as his 
natural confidant, and poured all his sor- 
rows into her ears. And as lovers always 
have very many, very exciting and never- 
before-experienced things to communicate, 
William, of course, came to her very often. 
His son's devotion to Adele could not escape 
Herr Kronhorst's notice; and so Adele's 
position became very embarrassing, while 
at the same time she could do nothing and 
say nothing that could help William. His 
father had repeated his refusal; and, not- 
withstanding all William's asseverations that 
he would be true to Irene, and would yet 
marry her and bring her home, it did not 
seem as if anything could be altered. She 
could not relieve him in the least from the 
sense of helplessness which oppressed him, 
notwithstanding all his brave talk. She 
could but expect that his father would have 



suspicions that she was encouraging his son 
in opposition to his wishes. She would 
gladly have talked freely with Herr Kron- 
horst about the matter, as she had done 
once before. But her words were not taken 
in such a way the first time as to encourage 
her to make another attempt; and, more- 
over, she now felt too much under con- 
straint in his presence to talk freely with 
him on the subject. 

So there remained to her at last nothing 
but to be perfectly frank with William him- 
self. 

" You place me," she said, " in" too pain- 
ful a position; and you must not be angry 
with me for wanting to escape from it. My 
conscience will not allow me to do other- 
wise than say to you that your first duty is 
to trust your father and submit to the deci- 
sion he has made, because it cannot be a 
mere arbitrary one; you yourself know that 
your father is not a self-willed despot, who 
thinks more of carrying his own point than 
of making his children happy. And if I 
tell you this, which your father's friendship 
for me makes it doubly my duty to do, then 
I make you impatient and angry, and you 
go away sullen. Would it not be better for 
us to avoid the unfortunate subject entirely, 
since I cannot give you the comfort you ex- 
pect and desire?" 

"That is very selfish of you, Fraiilein 
Adele," answered William, hastily. " Must 
I, then, feel entirely forsaken in my sor- 
row? And even if you have not enough 
sympathy for me to listen to me, does it not 
concern Irene, too, who is so attached to you 
that you cannot possibly be indifferent to 
her happiness?" 

"There is no indifference about it; that 
you know very well, my dear William. 
And is it selfish in me to express my sense 
of powerlessness to help you in any way, to 
say anything to comfort you or give you 
any hope ? Or encourage you to wait pa- 
tiently, and to withdraw from a position that 
gives me more pain than you think, and in 
which there seems to be no prospect of my 
doing any good ?" 

William sat silent for a while, with a 
gloomy face. 

"You may be right, but it is none the 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



165 



less painful for mo to hoar you talk so. 
What, in Heaven's name, will be left for mo 
when I have not a single friend left to talk 
with and from whom I can expect sympa- 
thy ? Nothing will be left for me but to 
carry out the plan I have long had in mind." 

"What plan is that?" 

"To tear myself entirely away from my 
position here; to make a fortune for myself, 
and independently gain a position where I 
can offer Irene a place worthy of her." 

"It is a chimerical plan, my young 
friend. For, even if you could bring your- 
self to pain your father so — now, when he 
relies upon you as his help and his support, 
when his strength shall fail under his heavy 
burdens, after he has worked for you and 
when he depends upon you to carry on his 
great work — if you could bring yourself to 
give him so much pain and to ' desert him, 
you would not gain Irene by it. Do you 
think her father would look upon you in 
the same light, whether you were the eldest 
son and the heir of the privy councillor 
Kronhorst, or a clerk for some mercantile 
firm dependent on his own exertions, for 
that is the way you would have to begin ?" 

William had not much to say in answer to 
this. It pained Adele to express her ©pin- 
ion so bluntly, but she could not help it. 
Her finest feelings urged her to escape from 
the false position in which she found herself 
placed, and which she felt much more 
keenly than she had tfie similar position in 
which she had formerly been as Irene's con- 
fidant. Then she had only her sense of 
duty toward Frau Schott as Irene's mother, 
to trouble her conscience; and now her duty 
toward William's father seemed so much 
more solemn and sacred ? 

4 e It is true, I should have to begin with 
that," said William, after a pause. "But 
when once I had taken a decided step, my 
father would not be irreconcilable. And in 
this I counted a little on you." 

"On me?" 

"On the value my father places on your 
advice and your opinion, you need not make 
that deprecating motion; I know how much 
he respects your judgment, and what influ- 
ence you might exert over him if you would. 
So I thought you would help me; that when 



my father should see that 1 was inflexible in 
my determination, you would induce him to 
give mo a small capital so that I could begin 
some business by which I could get on 
faster. " 

" If I could exert any influence over your 
father, William, it would be only so long as 
I might share his views and sentiments. 
When mine should be opposed to Ms, I am 
afraid we should find my influence very 
slight. And then, how could I have so lit- 
tle tact as to interfere in your relations to 
each other, which would then have taken on 
something of a hostile character?" 
. William threw a quick glance at her face. 

"You are not honest with me," he said. 

* * You know very well that . But we will 

leave that, or you might charge me with 
want of tact. In one thing you are right. 
Before carrying out my plan, I must have 
an understanding with Irene's father." 

William remained only a few minutes 
longer and Irene did not see him again for 
several days. 

Adele had been left alone this afternoon. 
Her brother had gone soon after dinner to 
make arrangements for a new road which 
was to be laid through a ravine in the 
prince's forest. He was to meet the sur- 
veyor, and an officer of the prince at the 
place and make the arrangements there. 
The young prince, a pleasant and obliging 
man, who, quite in contrast to his departed 
father, willingly admitted that he under- 
stood nothing about such matters, and let 
his officer talk, took the landrath by the 
arm when the business was finished, and 
asked him to walk back to the city through 
the park. Ferdinand had no objection to 
offer; he walked along with the prince, lis- 
tening to his lively talk; but his eyes wan- 
dered anxiously over the park; he dreaded 
seeing Elsie's form rise up before him. 
Since the day he had called and heard her 
explanation, the thought of meeting her 
again had been inexpressibly painful to 
him. But Elsie was not in the park. When 
they drew near the castle, the prince, to his 
dismay, invited him to take some refresh- 
ment with him on the veranda at the rear 
of the castle. 

"You can, at the same time,* remarked 



1G6 



juTRE AXD FLAME. 



the prince, take leave Ox the princess, 
who, I see, is on the veranda. She is 
going in a few days to her estate in the 
Wetterau, and will be glad to see you again 
before she goes. Come." 

Ferdinand could not command his voice 
sufficiently to object; he was obliged to go 
with the prince. Else was sitting in an 
arm-chair on the veranda, leaning back 
and looking idly into the distance. She 
was dressed in deep mourning. 

She grew very pale at sight of Ferdinand, 
but offered her hand with an air of perfect 
composure, saying: 

1 ' I ought to be very angry with you, Herr 
von Schott. Your conscience mast tell you 
that you have neglected me cruelly in my 
affliction. " 

"And did you think I would have ven- 
tured- " 

" To come and inquire after an old 
friend?" she put in, quijkly, as if she 
observed his embarrassment and came to 
his help; " I believed that. You could not 
know whether I should be in need of a 
friend, or that Prince Waldernar had at- 
tended to my affairs with so much kindness, 
that without him I should have been very 
much in want of a friend's assistance. " 

" You must not scold Herr von Schott too 
much, my dear mother," said Prince Wal- 
demar, smiling. * 1 1 hear he has the name 
of being something of a hermit, which is 
very virtuous, hut not very pleasant for his 
neighbors, living lonely in the country as 
we do. And when you are gone, it will be 
still more lonely up here; I hope Herr von 
Schott will remember that no virtue should 
be carried to excess." 

"I hardly believe," said Elsie, * thai, 
this love of a hermit's life is natural to you, 
Herr von Schott. At least, it did not show 
itself when I knew you in my youth. So 
you must have acquired it in your life here. 
So, my dear Waldeniar, you may expect 
that one of these fine days Herr von Schott 
will desert his dark office in the shadow of 
the old cathedral and return to the south, 
where I found him so happy more than a 
year ago, and where we spent some glorious 
days." 

Ferdinand, who had avoided meeting El- 



sie's eyes, tnought he felt them resting 
questioningly on him as she said this. 

"Who is not drawn toward the south 
again," he said, "when he has once lived 
there ? But we have to learn to conquer 
such longings, when we have a duty to bind 
us to some other place. I have taken such 
a duty on myself, and so I shall probably 
stay in my dark office in the shadow of the 
old cathedral till the end." 

As he said this, he met a peculiar glance 
from Elsie's eyes. Her countenance ex- 
pressed something like terror. 

"Will you really do that?" she asked 
eagerly. 

" Why does that surprise you so?" asked 
Prince Waldemar. " Your words sound 
very much as if you would be gratified to 
see our circle deprived of Herr von Schott' s 
society. Leave him here, and I will try 
every means for converting him from his 
devotion to a hermit-life." 

They had seated themselves a a little 
round cast-iron table, and a waiter had 
brought wine and refreshments. The prince 
chatted pleasantly, until the officer who had 
been with them in the forest stepped up 
and asked directions from the prince about 
some other business. The prince rose and 
withdrew with him to the distance of a few 
steps, to discuss the matter. This left Fer- 
dinand and Elsie alone for a few minutes. 

" What does that mean, Herr von Schott ? 
You declared you would stay here — here, in 
your office?" 

" Certainly, princess; I shall stay [here 
in my office." 

" In the office you took only reluctantly 
and from necessity, while all your prefer- 
ences and hopes were with your former em- 
ployment?" 

" That employment, with all my hopes, 
lies behind me." 

"Bnt you gave it up only because you 
must; because you were too poor to stay in 
it; because you were too proud to accept 
help from a friend. Bat now, when the 
means are no longer lacking, now you will 
certainly resume it again ?" 

J " No," answered Ferdinand, quietly; " j. 
shall not resume it. The means you speak 
I of will not make the slightest change in my 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



1G7 



life. I shall live as I did before, only on 
the avails of my position." 

" But that is utterly foolish," said Elsie, 
redening and speaking angrily. 

" Foolish to show you how little I cared 
for those means, when I was trying to find 
out whom they rightfully belonged to, how 
little I was troubled about my inheritance ? 
It may be that it is foolish, but that is the 
way I shall act. The property may be of 
use to my sister. I shall take none of it." 

Elsie looked at him a moment in speech- 
less astonishment and indignation. 

"But if I tell you," she whispered, 
eagerly, " that I desire you to return to 
your old life; that I cannot have a moment's 

rest till it is done; that I " 

Ferdinand shook his head, but they were 
just then interrupted. Prince Waldemar 
came back, and Elsie was obliged' to leave 
the rest unsaid. The prince took up the 
conversation where he had dropped it, and 
in a few moments Ferdinand rose to go. 
The prince shook his hand, and Elsie re- 
turned his bow with a slight, proud nod. 

She was evidently excited by what Ferdi- 
nand had said. Strange ! Why should she 
be angry at that? What did it matter to 
her how he spent his future life ? Did she 
hate him for his proceeding against her so 
that she could, not endure to have him do 
anything to show her that he was not so 
contemptible as her hatred would like to see 
him ? Or was it due simply to her love of 
power, which took pleasure in determining 
his future, and could bear no opposition to 
the plans she had made ? Ferdinand could 
not understand it, but he felt an angry satis- 
faction because he could tell her. Do not 
think I was anxious for this money I scorn 
to use, even though I humiliated myself 
enough to take it from you to give you back 
your peace of conscience and take away the 
burden that oppressed you ! 

In the evening he told his sister what 
Elsie had said and that she was soon going 
away. Adele was studying his features as 
he talked; they had a sort of rigid look, an 
expression she had noticed often during the 
last few weeks, since his last interview with 
Elsie. 

14 Then she is going ?" said Adele, after a 



pause. " And I think it is well she is going. 
She separates from you in peace and in 
friendship with all, and I think you will 
feel relieved when she is gone." 

Ferdinand did not answer. And, in fact, 
if he had assented to his sister's last re- 
mark, he would have lied. No; he did not 
feel relief at the thought that she was going. 
He had avoided meeting her, how long ! 
And yet, the thought that she was going, 
that he was losing her forever, filled him 
with an icy despair it seemed he could 
hardly endure. There were moments when 
he felt that he could have given up himself, 
his will, his very soul; have thrown himself 
in the dust before her and begged her par- 
don and her pity. 

But she could not pardon him; she could 
have no pity for the man he had shown 
himself to be, the man she must consider 
him. And he could not so bend his pride; 
nothing remained to him now but his prido 
and his defiance. 

In this mood, it was hard for him to 
accept the invitation Herr Kronhorst sent, 
a few days afterward, to him and Adele, to 
take tea at the villa on Sunday afternoon, 
and which Adele wished to accept. 

Sunday was a clear, warm, sunny day of 
early summer. Herr Kronhorst had tea 
served on the upper balcony, in front of the 
conservatory. There were but a few guests 
beside the von Schotts. From the balcony 
they had a fine view of the beautiful valley; 
looking off to Castle Achsenstein, whose 
position was less commanding than that of 
the villa, but which rose with more pleasant 
surroundings above its beautiful terraces, 
they could see its many windows glowing in 
the ruby light of the sinking sun. Ferdi- 
nand's eyes had long been resting upon it, 
when one of the guests called the attention 
of the company to the effect of the sunset 
light on the castle, and all eyes were turned 
toward it. 

Adele had risen and gone forward alone 
to the balustrade of the balcony. She 
looked down at the rushing river, whose 
waters were a dark steel-blue in the shadow 
of the bank on the side toward the villa, 
but toward the other side were painted 
crimson by the sunset glow, while the 



168 FIEE 

young willows along the margin — which 
Prince Gottlieb Anton had seen glowing in 
the red torch-light on that evening so fatal 
to him — were now swaying idly in the even- 
ing wind. Attracted by the view, or ab- 
sorbed in thought, Adele walked slowly 
along to the projection at the end of the 
balcony, and stood leaning on the parapet 
and looking down at the river. 

"Why are yon looking so thoughtfully 
into the river ?" said a low voice at her side, 
and she looked up into Herr Kronhorst's 
eyes. "Is the river telling you its secret 
in this beautiful light?" 

"Has it one?" 

" I think it must have two, as it now has 
two colors, where it is going and what it 
hides in its depths." 

"It is going with its restless flow where 
it will no longer be needed — to the sea. 
And what it hides in its depths ? I think 
if you should draw it off, you would find 
nothing in its bed but sand and pebbles." 

"You take a prosaic view of it, Fraulein 
Adele; but you may be right. I have no 
idea of drawing it off, merely to find in its 
bed what you find in most men, when you 
wait patiently for the stream of their talk to 
exhaust itself. But the river is still an em- 
blem of human life; its irresistible impulse 
to press on to a greater stream in the dis- 
tance, which will take it up and carry it to 
the boundless ocean, is an emblem of the 
impulse of the human soul. May I go on 
in this strain, or are you in too prosaic a 
mood to listen to it ?" 

"I have only to object that it flows be- 
cause it must, while man does not obey a 
mere blind impulse, but considers where he 
will go, and determines for himself." 

" So it is said. But, determines for him- 
self 1 Some few privileged individuals, of a 
reflective disposition — as, for instance, a 
certain wise Fraulein not far away — they 
may afford confirmation to this dogma of 
free self-government in every crisis of life. 
But I must confess that my life has not 
always been determined by impulses so far 
above the force of natural law, to which 
drives the unconscious river on to another 
stream, and finally to infinity." 

" Ah," answered Adele, smiling, " do you 



AND FLAME. 

say that— you, who from your youth have 
been holding steadily onward to a goal 
you had set for yourself, with the utmost 
strength and tenacity of will? But I will 
take you at your word and make a practical 
application. If you have not been able to 
. resist the power of your heart and its 
inclinations, if your more reflective and 
stronger spirit cannot master them, how can 
you expect much younger and weaker souls 
to do it? Is it not tyrannical and in the 
highest degree unjust ?" 

" What do you mean?" asked Kronhorst, 
while his face darkened a little. 

"You must understand. I am speak- 
ing for two poor young people whom you 
are making very unhappy, while the end 
will be that you will only have to acknow- 
ledge yourself conquered by the obstinacy 
of their attachment." 

A proud smile played around Herr Kron- 
horst's lips, but Adele saw plainly some 
perplexity in the look he threw at her. 

" You do not believe me ?" she continued. 
" Well, then, I will tell you. Your incre- 
dulity puts you in danger of losing the heart 
of your child." 

Kronhorst made no answer; but, after a 
pause, offered Adele his arm, saying: 

* ' Let us take a few turns on the balcony. 
I would like a chance to tell you just how 
matters stand, without being disturbed. 

When they reached the opposite end 01 
the balcony, Kronhorst began speaking in a 
suppressed voice. 

"It is impossible," said he, "for me to 
consent to William's marriage with a girl 
whose circumstances I do not understand, 
and of whom I am sure of one thing only — 
that she is in an entirely false position. She 
came here with her mother, Frau Schott; they 
lived in elegant style; she was said to be the 
heir of a rich relative. Frau Schott, however, 
afterwards confessed to me confidentially, 
that Irene was not her daughter; that she was 
a child the princess had in charge, and which 
she, Frau Schott, had adopted; that Irene's 
father was in America; that the inheritance 
she had received did not belong to her, and 
would be given up to the rightful heirs 
when she should be of age. Surprised at 
these disclosures, I urged Frau Schott to 



FIEE AND FLAME. 



1G9 



acknowledge the whole openly. Bat she ex- 
cused herself on the ground that her sister 
would bo compromised by it in the eyes of 
the prince; that he would put a wrong con- 
struction upon it. I could only shrug my 
shoulders, for I was convinced that he 
would not be far from the truth. Frau 
Schott did not, therefore, follow my advice, 
and I would not enter into any relation 
where I could not act with straight-forward 
honesty. Just as little could I consent to 
have William involved in such a position." 

"But poor Irene was so guiltless ! " 

"Certainly; but yet, with her stolen in- 
heritance she was no bride for my son." 

"I must confess you are right there," an- 
swered Adele, sighing. ' ' But now, Irene is 
in quite a different position," 

' ' William says so, " said Kronhorst. "But 
is it really so ? She has been reclaimed by 
her father, and is wi.h him in England. But 
is there not the same mystery about her 
origin ? Who is her mother ? Can you con- 
vince me that it is not the" 

" Do not call any names, Herr Kronhorst, 
for you will be doing an injustice." 

" Very well ; I will not call any names; I 
have said enough, and you must admit that 
I am right; that I cannot consent to have 
William, marry Irene for this reason alone, 
that I should fear to bring upon my family 
a most disgraceful, scandalous prosecution.'' 

"A scandalous prosecution? How can 
that be ? " exclaimed Adele, in surprise. 

" Why, that is very evident." 

" 1 cannot see, for my life, how it could 
come' about ! " 

"From the rightful heirs of that proper- 
ty, who, now that Bonsart has claimed 
his daughter, will draw their conclusions, 
and demand what belongs to them with the 
interest and damages." 

"Oh," said Adele, smiling sadly, "has 
that been disturbing you? Your anxiety 
about that was needless." 

" Are you so sure of that ?" 

"Yes; for the simple reason that my 
brother and I are the heirs." 

"I thought of that, though I did not 
know that you were the only heirs. Are 
you?" 

" We are the only ones. There is mo one 



in the world more nearly related to our cou- 
sin than we." 
"And you?" 

"We have long since settled the matter 
quietly and satisfactorily with those ladies. 
The guardian who had charge of the pro- 
perty has given it into my brother's care, be- 
cause my brother, as the nearest relative, 
asked the court to grant him the guardian- 
ship. Everything has baen arranged, and 
there cannot possibly be any trouble. Irene's 
property is all in my brother's hands. 
Neither of us has the slightest idea of al- 
luding to the affair again in the presence 
of either of those ladies, or of letting the 
world know anything about it." 

" Well, that is perfectly satisfactory, as 
regards that part of the subject." 

" And if you want to be satisfied with re- 
gard to your suspicion about the princess, I 
will refer you to my brother.. " 

" And what has he learned about it ?." 

" Oh, he has spent only too many days, 
weeks, and months in searching into the past 
life of the princess." 

" You say that with such a deep sigh !" 

" I have reason to. My brother has been 
made most unhappy by the affair. May I 
trust you with it?" 

"Do I not deserve your confidence a 
little?" 

"Certainly. Well, through his relation 
to the princess, my brother has been placed 
in the strangest, and to him, most painful 
position ; the position of a man passionately 
in love with the one he regards as his ene- 
my, and who in his heart worships the one he 
accuses and pursues with suspicion, who all 
the time hates himself for what he is doing 
against the woman that has placed him in 
such an unhappy state of strife with himself. 
So at least it was for a long time ; but now 
he considers the princess fully justified, 
and has forgiven her the wrong about the 
property ; and now he is torn with sorrow 
and remorse. " 

"Can that really be true?" exclaimed 
Herr Kronhorst, in astonishment. 

" It is a long, unhappy story," said Adele; 
"too long and sad to be told now. Let us 
return to our subject. Do you wish to be 
convinced by my brother of the perfect in 



170 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



noeence of the princess?" 

"It is enough that you express your con- 
viction of it." 

"I do express it without the slightest 
hesitation ; I am ready, if you still doubt, 
and if you require it, to put my hand into 
the fire." 

"I do not doubt the truth of what you 
say ; and since it is so, will you tell me can- 
didly whether you believe in a deep, true 
attachment between these young people ? do 
you believe it is a whole-hearted love that 
promises to be permanent, as so few of these 
ordinary juvenile love affairs are ? Do you 
believe that of William, notwithstanding his 
youth ?" 

"Yes," answered Adele; "I have seen 
how deeply he suffers. It is possible that 
at first, his affection may not have differed 
much from that of what you call ordinary 
juvenile love affairs. But the opposition he 
has met with has strengthened it so that it 
cannot now be destroyed ; and you will have 
to be careful that it does not excite William 
to rebel against your authority." 

"Do you then deem the matter so seri- 
ous?" 

"From all that William has told me in 
confidence, I judge that the matter is very 
serious. You have educated him to firmness 
and strength of will. You have shown him 
that a man ought to be strong and indepen- 
dent enough to make a position and fortune 
for himself." 

"And with such ideas, you think, Wil- 
liam might rebel against me?" 

"If Irene's father should encourage him 
in them I think he might." 

Kronhorst threw a troubled look at her 
face, and said, with a sigh : 

" Well, Adele, I will do as you advise me. 
You know me and my circumstances, and it 
seems you know William better, unfortu- 
nately, than I do. You know, too, Irene's 
circumstances. Put yourself in my place 
and tell me what to do." 

"I can understand," answered Adele, 
" that you may justly be ambitious to have 
your eldest son make a brilliant marriage. 
But you stand high enough to be indepen- 
dent of the consideration of property." 

"Oh, that is not the question," inter- 



rupted Herr Kronhorst. " My opposition is 
based neither on ambition nor money con- 
siderations. I should not object, if William 
wanted to marry the daughter of an honest 
peasant." 

"And you would prefer her to Irene? 
That would be very foolish in you ; for the 
daughter of an honest peasant would have 
neither Irene's grace nor her culture, and 
hardly her pure, true heart. And what 
other qualities have you to consider ?" 

"I see," said Kronhorst, with a sigh, " that 
I must yield before you threaten me with an 
instant revolt on William's part. It is al- 
ways well to understand when the right mo- 
ment has come for yielding of one's own ac- 
cord. If that moment is passed, then, as the 
poet says : 

' We meet the Must and lose the thanks.' " 

Adele looked up with a face beaming with 

joy. 

They returned to the company. Kron- 
horst looked for William, and was told that 
he had withdrawn a few minutes before. 
Going to William's room, he found him sit- 
ting with folded arms in the seat of the open 
window, looking fixedly at the golden clouds 
above the sinking' sun. As Kronhorst 
looked into the gloomy face of his son, who 
sprang up, in surprise, and looked question- 
ingly at him, he was glad that he had yield- 
ed so entirely to Adele, and let her decide 
for him. He felt that he could not have 
been so hard-hear fced as to hold out forever 
against the dearest wish of the boy he so 
tenderly loved. He could not have relied 
on his firmness to carry him through. 

He offered William his hand, and said, in 
a voice that betrayed his emotion : 

" Give me your hand, William, I have 
come to make peace with you. And since I 
know you hold fast to your conditions with 
inflexible obstinacy, nothing remains for me 
but to accept them." 

"Father," exclaimed William, grasping 
his father's hand in both his own, " Father, 
you really give your consent ? Oh, how I 
thank you; how I shall thank you all my 
life !" 

Give some of your thanks to Fraulein 
Adele; for, to tell the truth, it is she who 
has set the matter in a light that reconciles 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



171 



rne to it." 

"Adele? Oil, I knew she would be the 
angel that would make peace between us; 
I knew she is so good, and noble, and sen- 
sible. I knew she would make it right be- 
tween us, father. But that does not in the 
least diminish the gratitude I feel, and 
which Irene and I mil show you all our 
lives !" 



CHAPTER XXV. 

CONCLUSION. 

Fraulein Adele's fortunate interference in 
the affairs of the two young people seemed 
to be but the beginning of her mission to 
help people out of their troubles, and bring 
them to the realization of their dearest 
hopes. Carl was the next one that came to 
her for help. Immediately after school one 
day he appeared before her and said, defi- 
antly: 

" The teacher told me I was a boy God 
had sent to his school as a judgment on 
him; that I ought to go and be a stable-boy. 
And I will do it ! I will do that very thing ! 
Help me, Fraulein!" 

"To be a stable-boy? You? You are 
not in earnest, Carl?" 

" But I am in earnest; the teacher thought 
he would shame me before the whole school; 
but I will do it in earnest ! You know Herr 
Kronhorst; I want to help take care of his 
horses; he has such splendid horses ! And 
it's so nice up there at the villa." 

" Have you been there, then?" 

"Of course I have. I go every half- 
holiday to fish in the river below the villa, 
with Herr Kronhorst's stable-boys; I have 
given them squirrels and they take me with 
them for that. And then we go to the sta- 
bles, and evenings I help them fix the straw 
and sift the oats. Were you ever in the 
stables ? It is as nice there as in a church. 
Speak for me, Fraulein Adele, and let me 
help in the stables. I understand all about 
horses, and I can ride — oh, you don't know 
how I can ride !" 

"Do you really desire that? is it your 
whole ambition to be a stable-boy ?" 

"First stable-boy, then groom, then 



equerry !" 

Carl spoke the last word with a peculiar 
emphasis, and his eyes sparkled. It seemed 
to represent to him the summit of human 
ambition. 

Adele shook her head, but she thought to 
herself that possibly this might be Carl's 
true calling, as he seemed to have a pas- 
sionate fondness for every living animal, 
large or small. So she promised him to 
talk with her brother about it ; they agreed 
that it would be best to make no opposition 
to the boy's decided wish, since the conse 
quences of compulsion on such an untrac ta- 
ble nature could not be foreseen. 

" His obstinate head may be the very one 
to make a wild colt tame and manageable," 
said Ferdinand; "I can ask the councillor 
to take him." 

In a few days Adele made Carl more than 
happy by telling him of Herr Kronhorst's 
consent to give him a place among his 
grooms. 

Adele felt very little of the pleasure she 
gave to those around her, so long as her 
brother remained in the unhappy mood he 
no longer tried to conceal. After consider- 
ing and brooding for a long time about his 
mood and what might help him, she said to 
him, one day: 

"If I were in your place, Ferdinand, I 
would resign my office. God knows, I 
should suffer to be obliged to live without 
you. But now I can live at my aunt's 
under quite different and pleasanter cir- 
cumstances. Or perhaps William and Irene 
would give me a home with them; and I 
shall always have a good friend in Herr 
Kronhorst, if I should need protection. 
You need not, therefore, have any anxiety 
about me. And I am convinced that it 
would be better for you to throw off the 
burdens of your business, which affords 
you no satisfaction, to be free to return to 
your old profession that used to make you 
so happy, or to be entirely free and go into 
the world, and try change of scene, and en- 
joy the society of intellectual people, who 
would stimulate you and help you to enjoy 
life again. Take a long journey; go to 
Greece or the Orient; you are rich enough 
now to be independent anywhere. " 



172 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



"And do you think," said Ferdinaid, 
with a forced laugh, " that I would use this 
money now to lead a free, merry life with- 
out care or anxiety?" 

Adele looked at him in surprise. 

"At least, I will not have it said of me 
that I chased like a hungry dog after the 
money for the money's sake," he continued, 
in a defiant tone. 

"Ah!" she exclaimed; "you are, then, 
after all, too conscientious to regard the 
whole inheritance as yours ?" 

Ferdinand turned away without answer- 
ing. Adele watched him in silence, as he 
walked slowly to the window, with his hands 
clasped behind him. 

" Forever and eternally thinking of her !" 
she thought, with a sigh. " It will ruin 
him !" 

In her powerlessness, Adele resolved to 
take her friend Kronhorst into her confi- 
dence, and ask his advice about what was 
to be done to bring Ferdinand to a different 
spirit. She did so at the next opportunity, 
explaining the matter more openly and fully 
than she had done before. He recom- 
mended a step that seemed to her to have 
every prospect of success. 

" There is no hope," said he, "that by 
your persuasions alone you can induce Fer- 
dinand to change his position entirely, and 
return to a world in whose fresher and more 
bracing air he may recover. The only thing 
that can plunge him into such a bath, under 
the foaming serf of the great world, is an 
impulse coming in some way from the prin- 
cess — some consideration for her — since, as 
you say, she is the power that reigns sover- 
eign over his life." 

"But that proud woman," said Adele, 
" will she not feel mortally offended by his 
proceedings against her ? Will she not hate 
him as the one who first discovered her 
secret, her fraud, and then compelled her to 
confess it? Could anything else be ex- 
pected of her than that she would hate him 
intensely ?" 

"It is possible," answered Kronhorst. 
" Perhaps she hates him, and, perhaps — 
who knows — perhaps he is the first man 
she has ever met before whose will her own 
has had to bend. He may have inspired 



her with respect, and she may have a strong 
nand should not be merely in nominal pos- 
session of his inheritance. He wants to 
show her that he acted as he did from re- 
gard for her, not from a selfish desire to get 
possession of the property. The idea is 
rather high-flown than sensible or practical. 
But that is his will, and he has no very clear 
idea of what is to become of the property. 
You will hardly consent to please him by 
taking it all for yourself, and so encourag- 
ing him in his freak. So nothing remains 
but to explain to the princess, that so long 
as he does not enjoy the property and make 
himself independent with it, so long he is 
virtually deprived of it, and so long she re- 
mains the criminal who has deprived him of 
it. It is only the simple truth." 

" That is true: it is the simple truth. 
And you think that the princess should be 
induced, when the subject is placed in this 
light, to demand directly of Ferdinand that 
he give up his resolution ?" 

" That is what I mean." 

" But who is to do this ? to go to her and 
speak so plainly of matters which " 

" Which concern you nearly enough — you 
who have been wronged and whose brother's 
welfare is concerned — to authorize you to 
speak openly and plainly. I think you 
should do it. I am ready to drive up to the 
castle with you and to stand by you bravely 
in the battle as a friend of your brother. 
For I shall have a reserve force in the back- 
ground to bring the princess to terms. If 
she should be so filled with hatred and so 
haughty as to refuse to listen -to your rea- 
sons, and bring her will to bear against 
Ferdinand's freak, I will give her to under- 
stand that I do not consider her a fit asso- 
ciate for my future daughter-in-law, and 
will take care that she shall never see her 
again I" 

Adele felt deeply that such a step would 
be a double humiliation for her. She would 
not only be confessing her own powerless- 
ness to influence her brother, but would 
also be showing the proud woman how great \ 
was her power over him; and she could 
bring herself to decide upon it only with 
the greatest reluctance. But her anxiety 
for Ferdinand's future overcame her reluc- 



FIRE AND FLAME. 



173 



enough sense of justice to tell herself that 
he had a right to do everything he did. 
Let us suppose that she hates him too much 
to wish to do anything whatever, to exert any 
influence on him that would contribute to 
his happiness. It is still possible to appeal 
to her pride and her conscience, and compel 
her by them to do as you wish. Her pride 
and her conscience must require that Ferdi- 
tance, and she consented to go to the castle 
the next day with Herr Kronhorst. They 
could not delay any longer, for it was under- 
stood that the princess would start before 
the end of the week. 

She was, however, spared the humiliation. 
"When Herr Kronhorst had gone, after ap- 
pointing the hour at which he would come 
the next day, she took her usual seat at the 
window, wondering what would come of 
the next day's interview. She took up some 
fine embroidery and worked awhile, when a 
sudden darkness made her look up, It 
could not be the evening twilight, the days 
were now so long. Looking out, she saw 
that a heavy storm was gathering; the sky 
above the roofs and towers of the minster 
was covered with leaden clouds. A pecu- 
liar, tawny, spectral light, lay upon the old 
building, making it look still more decayed 
and gray with age. The frightened rooks 
fluttered hurriedly about and cawed louder 
than ever, as if to announce the coming 
storm, or as if angry that the old building 
stood so unmoved by the coming danger, 
and did not storm with all its bells to 
frighten it away. 

Adele went to close the windows of an 
adjoining bed-room. As she did so, the 
first gust of wind, mingled with the first 
great drops of the rain, beat into her face. 
She returned to her place at the window, 
and glanced out at the dry, dusty grass-plat 
below. As she withdrew her eyes, they 
caught a glimpse of a lady's form just disap- 
pearing within the door below. She saw 
nothing distinctly but the folds of a black 
dress. 

" It must be Frau Theresa Groebler com- 
Lig to make me a visit, " she thought. ' * She 
has reached shelter just in time — she is so 
afraid of thunder-storms !" 

It was, indeed, just in time; an instant 



after the storm broke forth in fury, whirled 
a cloud of dust high over the dry grass-pJat, 
and threw it, with malicious force, on the 
panes of Adele's window, which rattled at 
the shock; then the rain-drops pattered on 
them so violently, that it was impossible for 
Adele to hear the lady's step, which must 
have ascended the stairs and approached 
her door. To her surprise, however, there 
was no knock. She went and opened the 
door, and looked up the long hall; not a 
human form was visible through its gloomy 
length; only a strong gust of wind and a 
furious howl of the storm came from its 
farther end. 

Adele closed the door with an uneasy 
feeling. 

"Have I seen a ghost, then?" she asked 
herself. 4 ' Perhaps it is a ' black lady' that 
haunts this old house. Maybe one of the 
convent sisters has left her grave behind the 
cathedral, and is gliding through these dark 
passages in the tempest. It would not be 
anything so very strange. How uncanny it 
is in this old building ! If I were not 
afraid of disturbing Ferdinand, I would go 
to him." 

She resumed her place at the window 
just as the first flash of lightning was re- 
flected from the wet tiles of the cathedral 
roof. 

The black lady she had seen, and who 
had disappeared so mysteriously, had, in 
the meantime, ascended the stairs and passed 
along the hall with a light, uncertain, and 
hesitating step, but quite in the manner of 
mortals still in the flesh. An instant before 
Adele opened the door she had stepped 
into Ferdinand's office, after a hasty knock. 
She stopped on the threshold. Ferdinand, 
who was bending over his work, raised his 
head slowly and turned toward her, then 
exclaimed: 

"Elsie!— you!" 

He sprang up and advanced a step toward 
her, exclaiming again: 
"You, princess?" 

"It is I," whispered Elsie, bringing 
out the words with difficulty. "Xou are 
frightened at the sight of me and you have 
a right to be. I do not come with any 
peaceful design. I come almost like that 



174 FIRE 

unhappy girl, -who one night went into the 
hall in our house at H. to take vengeance 
on the one who was about to leave her and 
then destroy herself. Do you remember? 
I once said I had no key to such an act; I 
could not understand her; I should be in- 
' capable of acting so; I would not run after 
a faithless man. If he could desert me, I 
would quietly let him go. I said that years 
ago. I know now what an empty boast it 
was. The tortures of despair have taught 
me how presumptuous my pride was then 
and how broken it is now. That is what 
drives me here to-day. But do not be 
alarmed," she continued, with a bitter smile; 
"lam not going to seize any weapon to kill 
you. I only come to see you in this tem- 
pest and bring you the tempest in my soul; 
you must bear it, for you have caused it. 
You have treated me basely, strangely, de- 
testably. You have been the demon of my 
whole life. If you had never come in my 
way, then- " 

4 Tor God's sake, princess!" exclaimed 
Ferdinand, in fearful emotion, " why do 
you come to tell me that ? I know it well 
enough. It is the very thought that is kill- 
ing me — the consciousness that I have sinned 
against you in a way you can never pardon. 
And if you do really come in the spirit of the 
unhappy girl in the old tradition you speak 
of, with the strong desire to take revenge, 
you might have spared yourself the journey 
— you are sufficiently avenged by the re- 
morse that is gnawing at my life !" 

"Remorse? By your remorse? Then, 
in heaven's name, why did not your re- 
morse drive you to me ? Why did you let 
day after day pass by, let me put off my 
journey under all sorts of lying pretexts, 
put it off again and again, while the days 
passed and neither brought you nor any 
message from you, until I submitted to the 
last humiliation, and came to you myself, 
to make this confession, to ask you, in my 
despair: How is it possible that you can 
forsake me, that you can let me go without 
a word or sign of sympathy, after I have 
long since told you everything, have laid 
my whole life open before you, after I have 
confessed to you how I have struggled and 
suffered on your account ? Or do you think 



AND FLAME. 

it is so easy for a woman to play the hypo- 
crite where she loves, to assume a freezing 
manner — so easy to make the last sacrifice, 
to renounce forever" 

" Elsie," exclaimed Ferdinand, with beat- 
ing heart, " what does that mean ? what are 
you saying ? I do not understand !" 

"You do not understand," she answered, 
in a tone through which something like 
contempt trembled ; "you did not under- 
stand what it cost me when I played the 
hypocrite in Florence to gain the right to 
share with you the wealth I then had ; when 
I tried to have you marry Irene in order to 
restore what I had defrauded you of ! But 
it was well so, then; then, you ought not 
to have understood me ! But now, now, 
when I have told you everything that has 
influenced my life — it should not be so now; 
you should not selfishly require me to come 
to you to tell you that I love you and have 
always loved you ; that the power the 
thought of you had over me, consciously or 
unconsciously to myself, was all that saved 
me from that unhappy purpose of flying 
across the sea with a man whose real nature 
was strange to me" 

"Oh, Elsie, Elsie," interrupted Ferdi- 
nand, rushing toward her and grasping both 
her hands, "what are you saying? Do I 
really hear those words ? Is it not a jest, a 
dream — oh, go on, go on!" 

"Why need I go on ? What else shall I 
say ? What, but that nothing could be more 
stupid, more miserable than tjie pride that 
made you act as if I no longer existed for 
you, the pride that was in me till to-day, 
when I gained strength to tread it under 
foot and come to you to tell you all my 
heart. You know all now. I am free, and 
now decide what our life shall be !" 

"Pride!" exclaimed Ferdinand; "oh, 
heavens, what a mistake ! It was only the 
most terrible humility, that was destroying 
m e — the thought that you had forever con- 
demned me. Oh, Elsie," he continued, 
drawing her to his heart, 4 4 as you have told 
me all, tell me now how to bear this happi- 
ness; it seems as if I should die of so much 
happiness !" 

She laid her head upon his shoulder, 
while the tears streamed down her face. 



FIBE AND FLAME. 



A sharp flash of lightning quivered 
through the dark room and played around 
them, but they did not see it. 

The next day, when Herr Kronhorst 
called to take Adele to the castle, she re- 
ceived him with a face beaming with joy. 

"We are sparea the trouble of going to 
Achsenstein," she said, laughingly: " I have 
a great, an unlooked for announcement to 
make to you. They say man is a slender 
reed, moved by every breeze, now this way 
and now that. But my dear brother and his 
Elsie are stronger natures. It takes a storm 
like that of yesterday to move them. Only 
think, that storm whirled them together 
and into each other's arms." 

"Ah!" cried Herr Krouhorsfcin surprise, 
"what does that mean?" 

"It means that yesterday, becoming at 
length a little frightened by the fury of the 
storm, I went to Ferdinand's office to stay 
with him; and as I opened the door softly, 
what , do you think I saw? Elsie in Ferdi- 
nand's arms — fire and flame together— and 
I had to turn my eyes away from the blind- 
ing glare. The glare, to tell the truth, was 
that of the lightning which was playing 
over them as if to unite them, and then 



175 

the thunder rolled as if to add its blessing." 

Kronhorst laughed in sympathy. 

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "But the 
thunder's blessing will not prevent you 
from adding yours in a quieter tone." 

"Oh, certainly not; why should I not 
give it with all my heart, now that every- 
thing is made right ?" 

Adele's conviction that everything was 
made right, has not proved a mistake. 
William Kronhorst brought Irene home 
from England, and Philip Bonsart,. who 
could not again be separated from his 
daughter, severed his connection with the 
trans-Atlantic firm, and accepted a position 
in Herr Kronhorst's great establishment in 
E. Ferdinand von Schott and his sister 
have left the dark house in the shadow of 
the minster. He has returned to his former 
profession, though not in the same city, 
with the princess Elsie at his side, for Elsie 
will always be a princess, though she no 
no longer bears the title — she is at his side 
as security for the realization of the ambi- 
tious dreams he confessed to her with such 
frank naivete on that spring evening years 
ago, when they walked down from the 
Michaelisberg to the city of H. 



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=|jp' LIBRARY OF CHOICE NOVELS. 




1 

FIEE AND FLAIE. 




FROM THE GERMAN OP 

LEVIN SOHtTOKING. 




• 

TRANSLATED BY 

EVA M. JOHNSON. 




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A TALE OF THE TYROL. By Wilhelmina von Hillern. Handy Volume Edition. 8vo. Paper 
covers, 50 cents ; cloth, red edges, $1.25. 

Aucrbach, the great German novelist, in a recent letter to a lady in this country, pronounces this work "the best short 
story in modern German literature." 

" ' Geier-Wally ' is a wild and romantic story, highly descriptive of rustic life among the Tyrolese, and cannot fail to 
interest the reader." — Fort Wayne Journal. 

" A very singular, but a very powerful story. It has great merit aside from its dramatic story." — Liberal Christian. 

VI. 

THE LITTLE JOANNA. 

A NOVEL. By Kamba Thorpe, i vol., 8vo. Paper covers, 60 cents. 

" Little Joanna " is a quiet but very charming novel, written in a delightful style, and marked hy a great deal of excellent 
character-drawing. A distinguished Southern author writes to the publishers as follows : " Allow me to say how much I like 
*' Little Joanna " — I have enjoyed every page of it — and that it is the best story of Southern life as it now is with which I am 
acquainted. 

D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 

549 & 551 BROADWAY, N. Y. 



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